^^lU 


POEMS 

FIRST  SERIES 
BY 

].  C.  SQUIRE 


/  V 


J   V 


J    V 


J    V 


/ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 

GIFT  OF 


Dr.   Kate  Gordon  Moore 


POEMS 

FIRST  SERIES 


NEW  POETRY:  FALL  1919 

By  Arthur  Waley 

MORE  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  CHINESE 

By  Witter  Bynner 

THE  BELOVED  STRANGER 

By  Eunice  Tietjens 

PROFILES  FROM  CHINA 

BODY  AND  RAIMENT 

By  J.  C.  Squire 

POEMS:  FIRST  SERIES 


POEMS 

FIRST    SERIES 

BY     J.      C.      SQUIRE 


U* 


ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 

NEW    YORK         MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KKOPF,  Ixc. 


1>1 


FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


DEDICATION 

Lord,  I  have  seen  at  harvest  festival 

In  a  white  lamp-lit  fishing-village  church. 

How  the  poor  folk,  lacking  fine  decorations. 

Offer  the  first-fruits  of  their  various  toils: 

Not  only  fruit  and  blossom  of  the  fields. 

Ripe  corn  and  poppies,  scabious,  marguerites. 

Melons  and  marrows,  carrots  and  potatoes. 

And  pale  round  turnips  and  sweet  cottage  floivers. 

But  gifts  of  other  produce,  heaped  brown  nets. 

Fine  pollack,  silver  fish  with  umber  backs. 

And  handsome  green-dark-blue-striped  mackerel. 

And  uglier,  hornier  creatures  from  the  sea. 

Lobsters  long-clawed  and  eyed,  and  smooth  flat  crabs. 

Ranged  with  the  flowers  upon  the  window -niches. 

To  lie  in  that  symbolic  contiguity 

While  lusty  hymns  of  gratitude  ascend. 

So  I 

Here  offer  all  I  have  found; 

A  few  bright  stainless  flowers 

And  richer,  earthlier  blooms,  and  homely  grain. 

And  roots  that  grew  distorted  in  the  dark. 

And  shapes  of  livid  hue  and  sprawling  form 

Dragged  from  the  deepest  waters  I  have  searched. 

Most  diverse  gifts,  yet  all  alike  in  this: 

They  are  all  the  natural  products  of  my  mind 

And  heart  and  senses; 

And  all  with  labour  grown,  or  plucked,  or  caught. 


PREFACE 

The  title  of  this  book  was  chosen  for  this  reason.     Had  the 

volume   been   called   and   Other    Poems   it   might   have 

given  a  false  impression  that  its  contents  were  entirely  new. 
Had  it  been  called  Collected  Poems  the  equally  false  im- 
pression might  have  been  given  that  there  was  something  of 
finality  about  it.  The  title  selected  seemed  best  to  convey 
both  the  fact  that  it  was  a  collection  and  that,  under  Provi- 
dence other  (and,  let  us  hope  superior)  collections  will  follow 
it. 

The  book  contains  all  that  I  do  not  wish  to  destroy  of  the 
contents  of  four  volumes  of  verse.  A  number  of  small  cor- 
rections have  been  made.  There  are  added,  also,  a  few  recent 
poems  not  previously  published.  The  earliest  of  the  poems 
now  printed  is  dated  1905,  in  which  year  I  was  twenty-one. 
Some  of  the  subsequent  years,  such  as  1914  and  1915,  con- 
tributed nothing  to  this  book:  the  greater  number  of  the 
poems  were  written  in  1911-1912  and  1916-1917. 

Some  of  the  poems  were  not  written  as  I  should  now  write 
them;  and  many  of  them  reflect  transient,  though  mostly 
recurrent,  moods  which  I  do  not  necessarily  think  worthy  of 
esteem. 

J.  C.  S. 

March,  1918. 


Year 

CONTENTS 

Page 

Dedication 

5 

Preface 

7 

1905 

In  a  Chair 

13 

A  Day 

14 

1907 

The  Roof 

16 

1910 

Town 

18 

Friendship's  Garland 

23 

1911 

A  Chant 

26 

The  Three  Hills 

27 

At  Night 

28 

Lines 

29 

Florian's  Song 

32 

1912 

Antinomies  on  a  Railway  Station 

33 

Tree-Tops 

33 

Artemis  Altera 

38 

Epilogue 

39 

Dialogue 

40 

Starlight 

43 

Song 

44 

Crepuscular 

45 

For  Music 

46 

The  Fugitive 

47 

Echoes 

49 

1913 

The  Mind  of  Man 

51 

A  Reasonable  Protestation 

54 

In  the  Park 

59 

In  an  Orchard 

61 

The  Ship  62 

Ode:  in  a  Restaurant  63 

Faith  72 

A  Fresh  Morning  73 

Interior  74 

1913-14    On  a  Friend  Recently  Dead  75 

1916  The  March  81 
Prologue:  In  Darkness  82 
The  Lily  of  Malud  83 

1917  A  House  87 
Behind  the  Lines  89 
Arab  Song  90 
The  Stronghold  92 
To  a  Bull-Dog  93 
The  Lake  96 
Paradise  Lost  97 
Acacia  Tree  98 
August  Moon  100 
Sonnet  102 
Song  103 
A  Generation  104 
Under  105 
Rivers  107 
I  Shall  Make  Beauty  114 
Envoi  115 


POEMS 

FIRST  SERIES 


IN  A  CHAIR 


[13] 


The  room  is  full  of  the  peace  of  night, 

The  small  flames  murmur  and  flicker  and  sway, 

Within  me  is  neither  shadow,  nor  light. 
Nor  night,  nor  twilight,  nor  dawn,  nor  day. 

For  the  brain  strives  not  to  the  goal  of  thought, 
And  the  limbs  lie  wearied,  and  all  desire 

Sleeps  for  a  while,  and  I  am  naught 
But  a  pair  of  eyes  that  gaze  at  a  fire. 


A  DAY 


I.    MORNING 

The  village  fades  away 

Where  I  last  night  came, 
Where  they  housed  me  and  fed  me 

And  never  asked  my  name. 

The  sun  shines  bright,  my  step  is  light, 

I,  who  have  no  abode, 
Jeer  at  the  stuck,  monotonous 

Black  posts  along  the  road. 

II.    MIDDAY 

The  wood  is  still. 

As  here  I  sit 
My  heart  drinks  in 

The  peace  of  it. 

A  something  stirs 

I  know  not  where. 
Some  quiet  spirit 

In  the  air. 

0  tall  straight  stems! 

0  cool  deep  green! 
0  hand  unfelt! 

0  face  unseen! 


[14] 


III.    EVENING 

The  evening  closes  in, 

As  down  this  last  long  lane 

I  plod;  there  patter  round 
First  heavy  drops  of  rain. 

Feet  ache,  legs  ache,  but  now 
Step  quickens  as  I  think 

Of  mounds  of  bread  and  cheese 
And  something  hot  to  drink. 

IV.    NIGHT 

Ah!  sleep  is  sweet,  but  yet 

I  will  not  sleep  awhile 
Nor  for  a  space  forget 

The  toil  of  that  last  mile; 

But  lie  awake  and  feel 

The  cool  sheets'  tremulous  kisses 
O'er  all  my  body  steal  .  .  . 

Is  sleep  as  sweet  as  this  is? 


[15] 


THE  ROOF 


[16] 


When  the  clouds  hide  the  sun  away 
The  tall  slate  roof  is  dull  and  grey. 
And  when  the  rain  adown  it  streams 
'Tis  polished  lead  with  pale-blue  gleams. 

When  the  clouds  vanish  and  the  rain 
Stops,  and  the  sun  comes  out  again, 
It  shimmers  golden  in  the  sun 
Almost  too  bright  to  look  upon. 

But  soon  beneath  the  steady  rays 
The  roof  is  dried  and  reft  of  blaze, 
'Tis  dusty  yellow  traversed  through 
By  long  thin  lines  of  deepest  blue. 

Then  at  the  last,  as  night  draws  near, 
The  lines  grow  faint  and  disappear. 
The  roof  becomes  a  purple  mist, 
A  great  square  darkening  amethyst 

Which  sinks  into  the  gathering  shade 
Till  separate  form  and  colour  fade, 
And  it  is  but  a  patch  which  mars 
The  beauty  of  a  field  of  stars. 


II 

It  stands  so  lonely  in  the  sky 
The  sparrows  never  come  thereby, 
The  glossy  starlings  seldom  stop 
To  preen  and  chatter  on  the  top. 

For  a  whole  week  sometimes  up  there 
No  wing-wave  stirs  the  quiet  air, 
The  roof  lies  silent  and  serene 
As  though  no  life  had  ever  been; 

Till  some  bright  afternoon,  athwart 
The  edge  two  sudden  shadows  dart. 
And  two  white  pigeons  with  pink  feet 
Flutter  above  and  pitch  on  it. 

Jerking  their  necks  out  as  they  walk 
They  talk  awhile  their  pigeon-talk, 
A  low  continuous  murmur  blent 
Of  mock  reproaches  and  content. 

Then  cease,  and  sit  there  warm  and  white 
An  hour,  till  in  the  fading  light 
They  wake,  and  know  the  close  of  day. 
Flutter  above,  and  fly  away, 

Leaving  the  roof  whereon  they  sat 
As  'twas  before,  a  peaceful  flat 
Expanse,  as  silent  and  serene 
As  though  no  life  had  ever  been. 


[17] 


TOWN 

Mostly  in  a  dull  rotation 

We  bear  our  loads  and  eat  and  drink  and  sleep, 
Feeling  no  tears,  knowing  no  meditation — 

Too  tired  to  think,  too  clogged  with  earth  to  weep. 

Dimly  convinced,  poor  groping  wretches, 
Like  eyeless  insects  in  a  murky  pond 

That  out  and  out  this  city  stretches, 
Away,  away,  and  there  is  no  beyond. 

No  larger  earth,  no  loftier  heaven, 

No  cleaner,  gentler  airs  to  breathe.     And  yet, 

Even  to  us  sometimes  is  given 

Visions  of  things  we  other  times  forget. 

Some  day  is  done,  its  labour  ended, 

And  as  we  sit  and  brood  at  windows  high, 

A  steady  wind,  from  far  descended, 

Blows  off  the  filth  tliat  hid  the  deeper  sky; 

There  are  the  empty  waiting  spaces. 

We  watch,  we  watch,  unwinking,  pale  and  dumb, 

Till  gliding  up  with  noiseless  paces, 

Night  covers  all  the  wide  arch:  Night  has  come. 

Not  that  sick  false  night  of  the  city, 
Lurid  and  low  and  yellow  and  obscene, 
[18] 


But  mother  Night,  pure,  full  of  pity, 

The  star-strewn  Night,  blue,  potent  and  serene. 

Oh,  as  we  gaze  the  clamour  ceases, 

The  turbid  world  around  grows  dim  and  small. 
The  soft-shed  influence  releases 

Our  shrouded  spirits  from  their  dusty  pall. 

No  more  we  hear  the  turbulent  traffic. 

Not  scorned  but  unremembered  is  the  day; 

The  Night,  all  luminous  and  seraphic. 
Has  brushed  its  heavy  memories  away. 

The  great  blue  Night  so  clear  and  kindly, 
The  little  stars  so  wide-eyed  and  so  still, 

Open  a  door  for  souls  that  blindly 

Had  wandered,  tunnelling  the  endless  hill ; 

They  draw  the  long-untraversed  portal, 

Our  souls  slip  out  and  tremble  and  expand, 

The  immortal  feels  for  the  immortal. 

The  eternal  holds  the  eternal  by  the  hand. 

Impalpably  we  are  led  and  lifted, 

Softly  we  shake  into  the  gulf  of  blue. 

The  last  environing  veil  is  rifted 

And  lost  horizons  float  into  our  view. 

Lost  lands,  lone  seas,  lands  that  afar  gleam 
With  a  miraculous  beauty,  faint  yet  clear, 

Forgotten  lands  of  night  and  star-gleam. 

Seas  that  are  somewhere  but  that  are  not  here. 

Borne  without  effort  or  endeavour. 

Swifter  and  more  ethereal  than  the  wind, 

[19] 


In  level  track  we  stream,  whilst  ever 
The  fair  pale  panorama  rolls  behind. 

Now  fleets  below  a  tranced  moorland, 
A  sweep  of  glimmering  immobility; 

Now  craggy  cliff  and  dented  foreland 

Pass  back  and  there  beyond  unfolds  the  sea. 

Now  wastes  of  water  heaving,  drawing. 

Great  darkling  tracts  of  patterned  restlessness, 

With  whitened  waves  round  rough  rocks  mawing 
And  licking  islands  in  their  fierce  caress. 

Now  coasts  with  capes  and  ribboned  beaches 
Set  silent  'neath  the  canopy  sapphirine. 

And  estuaries  and  river  reaches, 

Phantasmal  silver  in  the  night's  soft  shine. 


Ah,  these  fair  woods  the  spirit  crosses, 

These  quiet  lakes,  these  stretched  dreaming  fields. 

These  undulate  downs  with  piny  bosses 

Pointing  the   ridges  of  their   sloping   shields. 

These  valleys  and  these  heights  that  screen  them, 
These  tawnier  sands  where  grass  and  tree  are  not. 

Ah,  we  have  known  them,  we  have  seen  them, 
We  saw  them  long  ago  and  we  forgot; 

We  know  them  all,  these  placid  countries. 
And  what  the  pathway  is  and  what  the  goal ; 

These  are  the  gates  and  these  the  sentries 

That  guard  that  ancient  fortress  of  the  soul. 
[20] 


And  we  speed  onward  flying,  flying, 

Over  the  sundering  waves  of  hill  and  plain 

To  where  they  rear  their  heads  undying 
The  unnamed  mountains  of  old  days  again. 

The  snows  upon  their  calm  still  summits. 

The  chasms,  the  files  of  trees  that  foot  the  snow, 

Curving  like  inky  frozen  comets, 
Into  the  forest-ocean  spread  below. 

The  glisten  where  the  peaks  are  hoarest. 
The  soundless  darkness  of  the  sunken  vales. 

The  folding  leagues  of  shadowy  forest. 

Edge  beyond  edge  till  all  distinctness  fails. 

So  invulnerable  it  is,  so  deathless, 
So  floods  the  air  the  loveliness  of  it, 

That  we  stay  dazzled,  rapt  and  breathless. 
Our  beings  ebbing  to  the  infinite. 

There  as  we  pause,  there  as  we  hover. 
Still-poised  in  ecstasy,  a  sudden  light 

Breaks  in  our  eyes,  and  we  discover 
We  sit  at  windows  gazing  to  the  night. 

Wistful  and  tired,  with  eyes  a-tingle 

Where  still  the  sting  of  Beauty  faintly  smarts: 

But  with  our  mute  regrets  there  mingle 
Thanks  for  the  resurrection  of  our  hearts. 

0  night  so  great  that  will  not  mock  us! 

0  stars  so  wise  that  understand  the  weak! 
0  vast,  consoling  hands  that  rock  us! 

0  strong  and  perfect  tongues  that  speak! 
[21] 


0  night  enrobed  in  azure  splendour! 

0  whispering  stars  whose  radiance  falls  like  dew! 
0  mighty  presences  and  tender, 

You  have  given  us  back  the  dreams  our  childhood  knew ! 

Lulled  by  your  visions  without  number, 

We  seek  our  beds  content  and  void  of  pain. 

And  dreaming  drowse  and  dreaming  slumber 
And  dreaming  wake  to  see  the  day  again. 


[22] 


FRIENDSHIP'S  GARLAND 


When  I  was  a  boy  there  was  a  friend  of  mine, 

We  thought  ourselves  warriors  and  grown  folk  swine, 

Stupid  old  animals  who  never  understood 

And  never  had  an  impulse  and  said,  "You  must  be  good." 

We  slank  like  stoats  and  fled  like  foxes. 
We  put  cigarettes  in  the  pillar-boxes, 
Lighted  cigarettes  and  letters  all  aflame — 

0  the  surprise  when  the  postman  came! 

We  stole  eggs  and  apples  and  made  fine  hay 
In  people's  houses  when  people  were  away, 
We  broke  street  lamps  and  away  we  ran. 
Then  I  was  a  boy  but  now  I  am  a  man. 

Now  I  am  a  man  and  don't  have  any  fun, 

1  hardly  ever  shout  and  I  never,  never  run. 
And  I  don't  care  if  he's  dead  that  friend  of  mine. 
For  then  I  was  a  boy  and  now  I  am  a  swine. 

II 

We  met  again  the  other  night 
With  people;  you  were  quite  polite. 
Shook  my  hand  and  spoke  a  while 
Of  common  things  with  cautious  smile; 
[23] 


Paid  the  usual  debt  men  owe 

To  fellows  whom  they  used  to  know. 

But,  when  our  eyes  met  full,  yours  dropped, 

And  sudden,  resolute,  you  stopped, 

Moving  with  hurried  syllables 

To  make  remarks  to  some  one  else. 

I  caught  them  not,  to  me  they  said: 

"Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead. 

Things  were  very   different  then. 

Boys  are  fools  and  men  are  men." 

Several  times  the  other  night 

You  did  your  best  to  be  polite; 

When  in  the  conversation's  round 

You  heard  my  tongue's  familiar  sound 

You  bent  in  eager  pose  my  way 

To  hear  what  I  had  got  to  say; 

Trying,  you  thought  with  some  success, 

To  hide  the  chasm's  nakedness. 

But  on  your  eyes  hard  films  there  lay; 

No  mock-interest,  no  pretence 

Could  veil  your  blank  indifference; 

And  if  thoughts  came  recalling  things 

Far-off,  far-off,  from  those  old  springs 

When  underneath  the  moon  and  sun 

Our  separate  pulses  beat  as  one. 

Vagrant  tender  thoughts  that  asked 

Admittance  found  the  portal  masked; 

You  spurned  them;  when  I'd  said  my  say. 

With  laugh  and  nod  you  turned  away 

To  toss  your  friends  some  easy  jest 

That  smote  my  brow  and  stabbed  my  breast. 

Foolish  though  it  be  and  vain 

I  am  not  master  of  my  pain. 

And  when  I  said  good-night  to  you 


[24] 


I  hoped  we  should  not  meet  again, 

And  wondered  how  the  soul   I  knew 

Could  change  so  much;   have  I  changed  too? 

Ill 

There  was  a  man  whom  I  knew  well 
Whose  choice  it  was  to  live  in  hell; 
Reason  there  was  why  that  was  so 
But  what  it  was  I  do  not  know. 

He  had  a  room  high  in  a  tower, 
And  sat  there  drinking  hour  by  hour, 
Drinking,  drinking  all  alone 
With  candles  and  a  wall  of  stone. 

Now  and  then  he  sobered  down. 
And  stayed  a  night  with  me  in  town. 
If  he  found  me  with  a  crowd. 
He  shrank  and  did  not  speak  aloud. 

He  sat  in  a  corner  silently, 

And  others  of  the  company 

Would  note  his  curious  face  and  eye. 

His  twitching  face  and  timid  eye. 

When  they  saw  the  eye  he  had 

They  thought,  perhaps,  that  he  was  mad; 

I  knew  he  was  clear  and  sane 

But  had  a  horror  in  his  brain. 

He  had  much  money  and  one  friend 
And  drank  quite  grimly  to  the  end. 
Why  he  chose  to  die  in  hell 
I  did  not  ask,  he  did  not  tell. 


[25] 


A  CHANT 


Gently  the  petals  fall  as  the  tree  gently  sways 
That  has  known  many  springs  and  many  petals  fall 

Year  after  year  to  strew  the  green  deserted  ways 

And  the  statue  and  the  pond  and  the  low,  broken  wall. 

Faded  is  the  memory  of  old  things  done, 
Peace  floats  on  the  ruins  of  ancient  festival ; 

They  lie  and  forget  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun, 
And  a  sky  silver-blue  arches  over  all. 

0  softly,  0  tenderly,  the  heart  now  stirs 

With  desires  faint  and  formless;  and,  seeking  not,  I  find 
Quiet  thoughts  that  flash  like  azure  kingfishers 

Across  tlie  luminous,  tranquil  mirror  of  the  mind. 


[26] 


THE  THREE  HILLS 


There  were  three  hills  that  stood  alone 

With  woods  about  their  feet. 
They  dreamed  quiet  when  the  sun  shone 

And  whispered  when  the  rain  beat. 

They  wore  all  three  their  coronals 

Till  men  with  houses  came 
And  scored  their  heads  with  pits  and  walls 

And  thought  the  hills  were  tame. 

Red  and  white  when  day  shines  bright 
They  hide  the  green  for  miles, 

Where  are  the  old  hills  gone?     At  night 
The  moon  looks  down  and  smiles. 

She  sees  the  captors  small  and  weak, 
She  knows  the  prisoners  strong, 

She  hears  the  patient  hills  that  speak: 
"Brothers,  it  is  not  long; 

"Brothers,  we  stood  when  they  were  not 

Ten  thousand  summers  past. 
Brothers,  when  they  are  clean  forgot 

We  shall  outlive  the  last; 

"One  shall  die  and  one  shall  flee 

With  terror  in  his  train. 
And  earth  shall  eat  the  stones,  and  we 

Shall  be  alone  again." 


[27] 


AT  NIGHT 


[28] 


Dark  fir-top?  foot  the  moony  sky. 
Blue  moonlight  bars  the  drive; 

Here  at  the  open  window  I 
Sit  smokins;  and  alive. 

\^  ind  in  the  branches  swells  and  breaks 

Like  ocean  on  a  beach; 
Deep  in  the  sky  and  my  heart  there  wakes 

A  thoueht  I  cannot  reach. 


LINES 


When  London  was  a  little  toAvTi 

Lean  by  the  river's  marge, 
The  poet  paced  it  with  a  fro\\'n, 

He  thought  it  very  large. 

He  loved  bright  ship  and  pointing  steeple 
And  bridge  with  houses  loaded 

And  priests  and  many-coloured  people  .  . 
But  ah.  they  were  not  woaded! 

Not  all  the  walls  could  shed  the  spell 
Of  meres  and  marshes  green. 

Nor  anv  chaffering  merchant  tell 
The  beauty  that  had  been: 

The  crying  birds  at  fall  of  night, 

The  fisher  in  his  coracle. 
And.  grim  on  Ludgate's  windy  height. 

An  oak-tree  and  an  oracle. 

Sick  for  the  past  his  hair  he  rent 

And  dropt  a  tear  in  season; 
If  he  had  cause  for  his  lament 

We  have  much  better  reason. 

For  now  the  fields  and  paths  he  knew 
Are  coffined  all  with  bricks, 


[29] 


The  lucid  silver  stream  he  knew 
Runs  slimy  as  the  Styx; 

North  and  south  and  east  and  west, 

Far  as  the  eye  can  travel, 
Earth  with  a  sombre  web  is  drest 

That  nothing  can  unravel. 

And  we  must  wear  as  black  a  frown, 

Wail  with  as  keen  a  woe 
That  London  was  a  little  town 

Five  hundred  years  ago. 

Yet  even  this  place  of  steamy  stir, 
This  pit  of  belch  and  swallow. 

With  chrism  of  gold  and  gossamer 
The  elements  can  hallow. 

I  have  a  room  in  Chancery  Lane, 

High  in  a  world  of  wires. 
Whence  fall  the  roofs  a  ragged  plain 

Wooded  with  many  spires. 

There  in  the  dawns  of  summer  days 
I  stand,  and  there  behold 

A  city  veiled  in  rainbow  haze 
And  spangled  all  with  gold. 

The  breezes  waft  abroad  the  rays 

Shot  by  the  waking  sim, 
A  myriad  chimneys  softly  blaze, 

A  myriad  shadows  run. 

Round  the  wide  rim  in  radiant  mist 
The  gentle  suburbs  quiver, 


[30] 


And  nearer  lies  the  shining  twist 
Of  Thames,  a  holy  river. 

Left  and  right  my  vision  drifts, 
By  yonder  towers  I  linger. 

Where  Westminster's  cathedral  lifts 
Its  belled  Byzantine  finger, 

And  here  against  my  perched  home 
Where  hold  wise  converse  daily 

The  loftier  and  the  lesser  dome, 
St.  Paul's  and  the  Old  Bailey. 


[31] 


FLORIAN'S  SONG 


My  soul,  it  shall  not  take  us, 

0  we  will  escape 
This  world  that  strives  to  break  us 

And  cast  us  to  its  shape; 
Its  chisel  shall  not  enter, 

Its  fire  shall  not  touch. 
Hard  from  rim  to  centre. 

We  will  not  crack  or  smutch. 

'Gainst  words  sweet  and  flowered 

We  have  an  amulet, 
We  will  not  play  the  coward 

For  any  black  threat; 
If  we  but  give  endurance 

To  what  is  now  within — 
The  single  assurance 

That  it  is  good  to  win. 

Slaves  think  it  better 

To  be  weak  than  strong, 
Whose  hate  is  a  fetter 

And  their  love  a  thong. 
But  we  will  view  those  others 

With  eyes  like  stone, 
And  if  we  have  no  brothers 

We  will  walk  alone. 


[32] 


ANTINOMIES  ON  A  RAILWAY  STATION 

As  I  stand  waiting  in  the  rain 
For  the  foggy  hoot  of  the  London  train, 
Gazing  at  silent  wall  and  lamp 
And  post  and  rail  and  platform  damp, 
What  is  this  power  that  comes  to  my  sight 
That  I  see  a  night  without  the  night, 
That  I  see  them  clear,  yet  look  them  through. 
The  silvery  things  and  the  darkly  blue. 
That  the  solid  wall  seems  soft  as  death, 
A  wavering  and  unanchored  wraith. 
And  rails  that  shine  and  stones  that  stream 
Unsubstantial  as  a  dream? 
What  sudden  door  has  opened  so, 
What  hand  has  passed,  that  I  should  know 
This  moving  vision  not  a  trance 
That  melts  the  globe  of  circumstance. 
This  sight  that  marks  not  least  or  most 
And  makes  a  stone  a  passing  ghost? 
Is  it  that  a  year  ago 
I  stood  upon  this  self-same  spot; 
Is  it  that  since  a  year  ago 
The  place  and  I  have  altered  not; 
Is  it  that  I  half  forgot, 
A  year  ago,  and  all  despised 
For  a  space  the  things  that  I  had  prized:   * 
The  race  of  life,  the  glittering  show? 
[33] 


Is  it  that  now  a  year  has  passed 

In  vain  pursuit  of  glittering  things, 

In  fruitless  searching,  shouting,  running, 

And  greedy  lies  and  candour  cunning, 

Here  as  I  stand  the  year  above 

Sudden  the  heats  and  the  strivings  fail 

And  fall  away,  a  fluctuant  veil. 

And  the  fixed  familiar  stones  restore 

The  old  appearance-buried  core. 

The  unmoving  and  essential  me. 

The  eternal  personality 

Alone  enduring  first  and  last? 


'o 


No,  this  I  have  known  in  other  ways, 

In  other  places,  other  days. 

Not  only  here,  on  this  one  peak, 

Do  fixity  and  beauty  speak 

Of  the  delusiveness  of  change. 

Of  the  transparency  of  form. 

The  bootless  stress  of  minds  that  range, 

The  awful  calm  behind  the  storm. 

In  many  places,  many  days. 

The  invaded  soul  receives  the  rays 

Of  countries  she  was  nurtured  in. 

Speaks  in  her  silent  language  strange 

To  that  beyond  which  is  her  kin. 

Even  in  peopled  streets  at  times 

A  metaphysic  arm  is  thrust 

Through  the  partitioning  fabric  thin. 

And  tears  away  the  darkening  pall 

Cast  by  the  bright  phenomenal. 

And  clears  the  obscured  spirit's  mirror 

From  shadows  of  deceptive  error. 

And  shows  the  bells  and  all  their  ringing. 


[34] 


And  all  the  crowds  and  all  their  singing, 
Carillons  that  are  nothing's  chimes 
And  dust  that  is  not  even  dust.  .  .  . 

But  rarely  hold  I  converse  thus 

Where  shapes  are  bright  and  clamorous, 

More  often  comes  the  word  divine 

In  places  motionless  and  far; 

Beneath  the  white  peculiar  shine 

Of  sunless  summer  afternoons; 

At  eventide  on  pale  lagoons 

Where  hangs  reflected  one  pale  star; 

Or  deep  in  the  green  solitudes 

Of  still  erect  entranced  woods. 

0,  in  the  woods  alone  lying, 
Scarce  a  bough  in  the  wind  sighing. 
Gaze  I  long  with  fervid  power 
At  leaf  and  branch  and  grass  and  flower. 
Breathe  I  breaths  of  trembling  sight 
Shed  from  great  urns  of  green  delight, 
Take  I  draughts  and  drink  them  up 
Poured  from  many  a  stalk  and  cup. 
Now  do  I  burn  for  nothing  more 
Than  thus  to  gaze,  thus  to  adore 
This  exquisiteness  of  nature  ever 
In  silence.  .  .  . 


[35] 


But  with  instant  light 
Rends  the  film;  with  joy  I  quiver 
To  see  with  new  celestial  sight 
Flower  and  leaf  and  grass  and  tree. 
Doomed  barks  on  an  eternal  sea, 
Flit  phantom-like  as  transient  smoke. 


Beauty  herself  her  spell  has  broke, 
Beauty,  the  herald  and  the  lure, 
Her  message  told,  may  not  endure; 
Her  portal  opened,  she  has  died, 
Supreme  immortal  suicide. 
Yes,  sleepless  nature  soundless  flings 
Invisible  grapples  round  the  soul. 
Drawing  her  through  the  web  of  things 
To  the  primal  end  of  her  journey ings, 
Her  ultimate  and  constant  pole. 

For  Beauty  with  her  hands  that  beckon 

Is  but  the  Prophet  of  a  Higher, 
A  flaming  and  ephemeral  beacon, 

A  Phoenix  perishing  by  fire. 
Herself  from  us  herself  estranges. 

Herself  her  mighty  tale  doth  kill, 
That  all  things  change  yet  nothing  changes. 

That  all  things  move  yet  all  are  still. 

I  cannot  sink,  I  cannot  climb. 

Now  that  I  see  my  ancient  dwelling, 
The  central  orb  untouched  of  time. 

And  taste  a  peace  all  bliss  excelling. 
Now  I  have  broken  Beauty's  wall. 

Now  that  my  kindred  world  I  hold, 
I  care  not  though  the  cities  fall 

And  the  green  earth  go  cold. 


[36] 


TREE-TOPS 


There  beyond  my  window  ledge, 
Heaped  against  the  sky,  a  hedge 
Of  huge  and  waving  tree-tops  stands 
With  muhitudes  of  flutterinar  hands. 


'& 


Wave  they,  beat  they,  to  and  fro, 
Never  stillness  may  they  know. 
Plunged  by  the  wind  and  hurled  and  torn 
Anguished,  purposeless,  forlorn. 

"0  ferocious,  0  despairing. 

In  huddled  isolation  faring 

Through  a  scattered  universe. 

Lost  coins  from  the  Almighty's  purse!  " 

"No,  below  you  do  not  see 

The  firm  foundations  of  the  tree; 

Anchored  to  a  rock  beneath 

We  laugh  in  the  hammering  tempest's  teeth. 

"Boughs  like  men  but  burgeons  are 

On  an  adamantine  star ; 

Men  are  myriad  blossoms  on 

A  staunch  and  cosmic  skeleton." 


[37] 


ARTEMIS  ALTERA 

0  FULL  of  candour  and  compassion, 

Whom  love  and  worship  both  would  praise, 

Love  cannot  frame  nor  worship  fashion 
The  image  of  your  fearless  ways! 

How  show  your  noble  brow's  dark  pallor, 
Your  chivalrous  casque  of  ebon  hair, 

Your  eyes'  bright  strength,  your  lips'  soft  valour, 
Your  supple  shoulders  and  hands  that  dare? 

Our  souls  when  naively  you  examine. 
Your  sword  of  innocence,  flaming,  huge. 

Sweeps  over  us,  and  there  is  famine 
Within  the  ports  of  subterfuge. 

You  hate  contempt  and  love  not  laughter; 

With  your  sharp  spear  of  virgin  will 
You  harry  the  wicked  strong;  but  after, 

0  huntress  who  could  never  kill. 

Should  they  be  trodden  down  or  pierced. 
Swift,  swift,  you  fly  with  burning  cheek 

To  place  your  beauty's  shield  reversed 
Above  the  vile  defenceless  weak! 


[38] 


EPILOGUE 


Than  farthest  stars  more  distant, 
A  mile  more, 
A  mile  more, 
A  voice  cries  on  insistent: 
"You  may  smile  more  if  you  will; 

"You  may  sing  too  and  spring  too; 
But  numb  at  last 
And  dumb  at  last, 
Whatever  port  you  cling  to, 
You  must  come  at  last  to  a  hill. 

"And  never  a  man  you'll  find  there 
To  take  your  hand 
And  shake  your  hand; 
But  when  you  go  behind  there 
You  must  make  your  hand  a  sword 

"To  fence  with  a  foeman  swarthy. 
And  swink  there 
Nor  shrink  there, 
Though  cowardly  and  worthy 
Must  drink  there  one  reward." 


[39] 


DIALOGUE 


THE  ONE 


The  dead  man's  gone,  the  live  man's  sad,  the  dying  leaf  shakes 
on  the  tree. 

The  wind  constrains  the  window-panes  and  moans  like  moan- 
ing of  the  sea. 
And  sour's  the  taste  now  culled  in  haste  of  lovely  things  I 
won  too  late, 

And  loud  and  loud  above  the  crowd  the  Voice  of  One  more 


strong  than  we. 


THE  OTHER 


This  Voice  you  hear,  this  call  you  fear,  is  it  unprophesied  or 


new? 
Were  you  so  insolent  to  think  its  rope  would  never  circle  you? 
Did  you  then  beastlike  live  and  walk  with  ears  and  eyes  that 
would  not  turn? 
Who  bade  you  hope  your  service  'scape  in  that  eternal  retinue? 

THE  ONE 

No;  for  I  swear  now  hare's  the  tree  and  loud  the  moaning  of 

the  wind, 
I  walked  no  rut  with  eyelids  shut,  my  ears  and  eyes  were  never 

blind, 
Only  my  eager  thoughts  I  bent  on  many  things  that  I  desired 
To  make  my  greedy  heart  content  ere  flesh  and  blood  I  left 

behind. 
[40] 


THE  OTHER 

Ignorance,  then,  was  all  your  fault  and  filmed  eyes  that  could 
not  know, 

That  half  discerned  and  never  learned  the  temporal  way  that 
men  must  go; 
You  set  the  image  of  the  world  high  for  your  heart's  idol- 
atry, 

Though  with  your  lips  you  called  the  world  a  toy,  a  ghost, 
a  passing  show. 

THE  ONE 

No,  no;  this  is  not  true;  my  lips  spoke  only  what  my  heart 

believed. 
Called  I  the  world  a  toy;  I  spoke  not  echo-like  or  self-deceived. 
But  that  I  thought  the  toy  was  mine  to  play  with,  and  the 

passing  show 
Would  sate  at  least  my  passing  lusts,  and  did  not,  therefore  am 

I  grieved. 

What  did  I  do  that  I  must  bear  this  lifelong  tyranny  of  my 

fate. 
That  I  must  writhe  in  bonds  unsought  of  accidental  love  and 

hate? 
Had  chance  but  joined  different  dice,  but  once  or  twice,  but 

once  or  twice, 
All  lovely  things  that  I  desired  I  should  have  held  before  too 

late. 

Surely  I  knew  that  flesh  was  grass  nor  valued  overmuch  the 

prize. 
But  all  the  powers  of  chance  conspired  to  cheat  a  man  both 

just  and  wise. 
Happy  I'd  been  had  I  but  had  my  due  reward,  and  not  a 

sword 
Flaming  in  diabolic  hand  between  me  and  my  Paradise. 
[41] 


THE  OTHER 

No  hooded  band  of  fates  did  stand  your  heart's  ambitions  to 

gainsay, 
No  flaming  brand  in  evil  hand  was  ever  thrust  across  your 

way, 
Only  the  things  all  men  must  meet,  the  common  attributes 

of  men, 
That  men  may  flinch  tP-  see  or,  seeing,  deny,  but  avoid  them 

no  man  may. 

Fall  the  dice,  not  once  or  twice  but  always,  to  make  the  self- 
same sum; 

Chance  what  may,  a  life's  a  life  and  to  a  single  goal  must 
come; 
Though  a  man  search  far  and  wide,  never  is  hunger  satisfied ; 

Nature  brings  her  natural  fetters,  man  is  meshed  and  the  wise 
are  dumb. 

0  vain  all  art  to  assuage  a  heart  with  accents  of  a  mortal 

tongue, 
All  earthly  words  are  incomplete  and  only  sweet  are  the  songs 

unsung. 
Never  yet  was  cause  for  regret,  yet  regret  must  afflict  us  all, 
Better  it  were  to  grasp  the  world  'thwart  which  this  world  is  a 

curtain  flung. 


[42] 


STARLIGHT 


Last  night  I  lay  in  an  open  field 

And  looked  at  the  stars  with  lips  sealed; 

No  noise  moved  the  windless  air, 

And  I  looked  at  the  stars  with  steady  stare. 

There  were  some  that  glittered  and  some  that  shone 
With  a  soft  and  equal  glow,  and  one 
That  queened  it  over  the  sprinkled  round, 
Swaying  the  host  with  silent  sound. 

"Calm  things,"  I  thought,  "in  your  cavern  blue, 

I  will  learn  and  hold  and  master  you; 

I  will  yoke  and  scorn  you  as  I  can. 

For  the  pride  of  my  heart  is  the  pride  of  a  man." 

Grass  to  my  cheek  in  the  dewy  field, 
I  lay  quite  still  with  lips  sealed, 
And  the  pride  of  a  man  and  his  rigid  gaze 
Stalked  like  swords  on  heaven's  ways. 

But  through  a  sudden  gate  there  stole 
The  Universe  and  spread  in  my  soul ; 
Quick  went  my  breath  and  quick  my  heart, 
And  I  looked  at  the  stars  with  lips  apart. 


[43] 


I 


SONG 


There  is  a  wood  where  the  fairies  dance 
All  night  long  in  a  ring  of  mushrooms  daintily, 
By  each  tree  bole  sits  a  squirrel  or  a  mole, 
And  the  moon  through  the  branches  darts. 

Light  on  the  grass  their  slim  limbs  glance, 
Their  shadows  in  the  moonlight  swing  in  quiet  unison. 
And  the  moon  discovers  that  they  all  have  lovers, 
But  they  never  break  their  hearts. 

They  never  grieve  at  all  for  sands  that  run, 
They  never  know  regret  for  a  deed  that's  done. 
And  they  never  think  of  going  to  a  shed  with  a  gun 
At  the  rising  of  the  sun. 


[44] 


CREPUSCULAR 


No  creature  stirs  in  the  wide  fields. 
The  rifted  western  heaven  yields 
The  dying  sun's  illumination. 
This  is  the  hour  of  tribulation 
When,  with  clear  sight  of  eve  engendered, 
Day's  homage  to  delusion  rendered. 
Mute  at  her  window  sits  the  soul. 

Clouds  and  skies  and  lakes  and  seas. 
Valleys  and  hills  and  grass  and  trees, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  all  stand  to  her 
Limbs  of  one  lordless  challenger. 
Who,  without  deigning  taunt  or  frown. 
Throws  a  perennial  gauntlet  down: 

"Come  conquer  me  and  take  thy  toll." 

No  cowardice  or  fear  she  knows. 

But,  as  once  more  she  girds,  there  grows 

An  unresigned  hopelessness 

From  memory  of  former  stress. 

Head  bent,  she  muses  whilst  he  waits: 

How  with  such  weapons  dint  his  plates? 

How  quell  this  vast  and  sleepless  giant 

Calmly,  immortally  defiant. 

How  fell  him,  bind  him,  and  control 
With  a  silver  cord  and  a  golden  bowl? 


[45] 


FOR  MUSIC 


[46] 


Death  in  the  cold  grey  morning 

Came  to  the  man  where  he  lay; 
And  the  wind  shivered,  and  the  tree  shuddered 

And  the  dawn  was  grey. 

And  the  face  of  the  man  was  grey  in  the  dawn, 

And  the  watchers  by  the  bed 
Knew,  as  they  heard  the  shaking  of  the  leaves, 

That  the  man  was  dead. 


THE  FUGITIVE 


[47] 


Flying  his  hair  and  his  eyes  averse, 
Fleet  are  his  feet  and  his  heart  apart. 
How  could  our  song  his  charms  rehearse? 
Fleet  are  his  feet  and  his  heart  apart. 

High  on  a  down  we  found  him  last, 
Shy  as  a  hare,  he  fled  as  fast; 
How  could  we  clasp  him  or  ever  he  passed? 
Fleet  are  his  feet  and  his  heart  apart. 

How  could  we  cling  to  his  limbs  that  shone. 
Ravish  his  cheeks'  red  gonfalon, 
Or  the  wild-skin  cloak  that  he  had  on? 
Fleet  are  his  feet  and  his  heart  apart. 

For  the  wind  of  his  feet  still  straightly  shaping, 
He  loosed  at  our  breasts  from  his  eyes  escaping 
One  crooked  swift  glance  like  a  javelin  leaping. 
Fleet  are  his  feet  and  his  heart  apart. 

And  his  feet  passed  over  the  sunset  land 
From  the  place  forlorn  where  a  forlorn  band 
Watching  him  flying  we  still  did  stand. 
Fleet  are  his  feet  and  his  heart  apart. 

Vanishing  now  who  would  not  stay 
To  the  blue  hills  on  the  verge  of  day. 


0  soft!  soft!  Music  play, 
Fading  away, 

(Fleet  are  his  feet 
And  his  heart  apart) 
Fading  away. 


[48] 


ECHOES 


There  is  a  far  unfading  city 

Where  bright  immortal  people  are; 
Remote  from  hollow  shame  and  pity, 

Their  portals  frame  no  guiding  star 
But  blightless  pleasure's  moteless  rays 

That  follow  their  footsteps  as  they  dance 
Long  lutanied  measures  through  a  maze 

Of  flower-like  song  and  dalliance. 

There  always  glows  the  vernal  sun, 

There  happy  birds  for  ever  sing. 
There  faint  perfumed  breezes  run 

Through  branches  of  eternal  spring; 
There  faces  browned  and  fruit  and  milk 

And  blue-winged  words  and  rose-bloomed  kisses 
In  galleys  gowned  with  gold  and  silk 

Shake  on  a  lake  of  dainty  blisses. 

Coyness  is  not,  nor  bear  they  thought, 

Save  of  a  shining  gracious  flow; 
All  natural  joys  are  temperate  sought, 

For  calm  desire  there  they  know, 
A  fire  promiscuous,  languorous,  kind; 

They  scorn  all  fiercer  lusts  and  quarrels, 
Nor  blow  about  on  anger's  wind. 

Nor  burn  with  love,  nor  rust  with  morals. 


[49] 


Folk  in  the  far  unfading  city. 

Burning  with  lusts  my  senses  are, 
I  am  torn  with  love  and  shame  and  pity, 

Be  to  my  heart  a  guiding  star : 
Wise  youths  and  maidens  in  the  sun. 

With  eyes  that  charm  and  lips  that  sing. 
And  gentle  arms  that  rippling  run, 

Shed  on  my  heart  your  endless  spring! 


[50] 


THE  iMIND  OF  MAN 


[51] 


Beneath  my  skull-bone  and  my  hair, 
Covered  like  a  poisonous  well, 

There  is  a  land :  if  you  looked  there 
What  you  saw  you'd  quail  to  tell. 

You  that  sit  there  smiling,  you 

Know  that  what  I  say  is  true. 

My  head  is  very  small  to  touch, 
I  feel  it  all  from  front  to  back. 

An  eared  round  that  weighs  not  much, 
Eyes,  nose-holes,  and  a  pulpy  crack: 

Oh,  how  small,  how  small  it  is! 

How  could  countries  be  in  this? 

Yet,  when  I  watch  with  eyelids  shut. 

It  glimmers  forth,  now  dark,  now  clear, 

The  city  of  Cis-Occiput, 

The  marshes  and  the  writhing  mere. 

The  land  that  every  man  I  see 

Knows  in  himself  but  not  in  me. 

II 

Upon  the  borders  of  the  weald 

(I  walk  there  first  when  I  step  in) 
Set  in  green  wood  and  smiling  field. 


The  city  stands,  unstained  of  sin; 
White  thoughts  and  wishes  pure 
Walk  the  streets  with  steps  demure. 

In  its  clean  groves  and  spacious  halls 

The  quiet-eyed  inhabitants 
Hold  innocent  sunny  festivals 

And  mingle  in  decorous  dance; 
Things  that  destroy,  distort,  deface. 
Come  never  to  that  lovely  place. 

Never  could  evil  enter  thither. 

It  could  not  live  in  that  sweet  air. 

The  shadow  of  an  ill  deed  must  wither 
And  fall  away  to  nothing  there. 

You  would  say  as  there  you  stand 

That  all  was  beauty  in  the  land. 

•  •••••• 

But  go  you  out  beyond  the  gateway, 

Cleave  you  the  woods  and  pass  the  plain. 

Cross  you  the  frontier  down,  and  straightway 
The  trees  will  end,  the  grass  will  wane. 

And  you  will  come  to  a  wilderness 

Of  sticks  and  parched  barrenness. 

The  middle  of  the  land  is  this, 

A  tawny  desert  midmost  set, 
Barren  of  living  things  it  is. 

Saving  at  night  some  vampires  flit 
That  nest  them  in  the  farther  marish 
Where  all  save  vilest  things  must  perish. 

Here  in  this  reedy  marsh  of  green 
And  oily  pools,  swarm  insects  fat 


[52] 


And  birds  of  prey  and  beasts  obscene, 
Things  that  the  traveller  shudders  at, 
All  cunning  things  that  creep  and  fly 
To  suck  men's  blood  until  they  die. 

Rarely  from  hence  does  aught  escape 

Into  the  world  of  outer  light, 
But  now  and  then  some  sable  shape 

Outward  will  dash  in  sudden  flight; 
And  men  stand  stonied  or  distraught 
To  know  the  loathly  deed  or  thought. 

But,  ah !  beyond  the  marsh  you  reach 
A  purulent  place  more  vile  than  all, 

A  festering  lake  too  foul  for  speech, 
Rotten  and  black,  with  coils  acrawl. 

Where  writhe  with  lecherous  squeakings  shrill 

Horrors  that  make  the  heart  stand  still. 

There,  'neath  a  heaven  diseased,  it  lies. 
The  mere  alive  with  slimy  worms, 

With  perverse  terrible  infamies. 
And  murders  and  repulsive  forms 

That  have  no  name,  but  slide  here  deep. 

Whilst  I,  their  holder,  silence  keep. 


[53] 


A  REASONABLE  PROTESTATION 

[To  F.,  who  complained  of  his  vagueness  and  lack  of 
dogmatic  statement] 

Not,  I  suppose,  since  I  deny 
Appearance  is  reality, 
And  doubt  the  substance  of  the  earth 
Does  your  remonstrance  come  to  birth; 
Not  that  at  once  I  both  affirm 
'Tis  not  the  skin  that  makes  the  worm 
And  every  tactile  thing  with  mass 
Must  find  its  symbol  in  the  grass 
And  with  a  cool  conviction  say 
Even  a  critic's  more  than  clay 
And  every  dog  outlives  his  day. 
This  kind  of  vagueness  suits  your  view, 
You  would  not  carp  at  it;  for  you 
Did  never  stand  with  those  who  take 
Their  pleasures  in  a  world  opaque. 
For  you  a  tree  would  never  be 
Lovely  were  it  but  a  tree. 
And  earthly  splendours  never  splendid 
If  by  transcience  unattended. 
Your  eyes  are  on  a  farther  shore 
Than  any  of  earth;  nor  do  adore 
As  godhead  God's  dead  hieroglyph. 
Nor  would  you  be  perturbed  if 
Some  prophet  with  a  voice  of  thunder 
[54] 


And  avalanche  arm  should  blast  and  founder 
The  logical  pillars  that  maintain 
This  visible  world  which  loads  the  brain, 
Loads  the  brain  and  withers  the  heart 
And  holds  man  from  his  God  apart. 

But  still  with  you  remains  the  craving 
For  some  more  solid  substance,  having 
Surface  to  touch,  colour  to  see, 
And  form  compact  in  symmetry. 
You  are  not  satisfied  with  these 
Vague  throbbings,  nameless  ecstasies, 
Nor  can  your  spirit  find  delight 
In  an  amorphic  great  white  light. 
Not  with  such  sickles  can  you  reap ; 
If  a  dense  earth  you  cannot  keep 
You  want  a  dense  heaven  as  substitute 
With  trees  of  plump  celestial  fruit, 
Red  apples,  golden  pomegranates. 
And  a  river  flowing  by  tall  gates 
Of  topaz  and  of  chrysolite 
And  walls  of  twenty  cubits  height. 

Frank,  you  cry  out  against  the  age! 

Nor  you  nor  I  can  disengage 

Ourselves  from  that  in  which  we  live 

Nor  seize  on  things  God  does  not  give. 

Thirsty  as  you,  perhaps,  I  long 

For  courtyards  of  eternal  song. 

Even  as  yours  my  feet  would  stray 

In  a  city  where  'tis  always  day 

And  a  green  spontaneous  leafy  garden 

With  God  in  the  middle  for  a  warden; 

But  though  I  hope  with  strengthening  faith 


[55] 


To  taste  when  I  have  traversed  death 

The  unimaginable  sweetness 

Of  certitude  of  such  concreteness, 

How  should  1  draw  the  hue  and  scope 

Of  substances  I  only  hope 

Or  blaze  upon  a  paper  screen 

The  evidence  of  things  not  seen? 

This  art  of  ours  but  grows  and  stirs 

Experience  when  it  registers, 

And  you  know  well  as  I  know  well 

This  autumn  of  time  in  which  we  dwell 

Is  not  an  age  of  revelations 

Solid  as  once,  but  intimations 

That  touch  us  with  warm  misty  fingers 

Leaving  a  nameless  sense  that  lingers 

That  sight  is  blind  and  Time's  a  snare 

And  earth  less  solid  than  the  air 

And  deep  below  all  seeming  things 

There  sits  a  steady  king  of  kings 

A  radiant  ageless  permanence, 

A  quenchless  fount  of  virtue  whence 

We  draw  our  life;  a  sense  that  makes 

A  staunch  conviction  nothing  shakes 

Of  our  own  immortality. 

And  though,  being  man,  with  certain  glee 

I  eat  and  drink,  though  I  suffer  pain, 

And  love  and  hate  and  love  again 

Well  or  in  mode  contemptible, 

Thus  shackled  by  the  body's  spell 

I  see  through  pupils  of  the  beast 

Though  it  be  faint  and  blurred  with  mist 

A  Star  that  travels  in  the  East. 

I  see  what  I  can,  not  what  I  will. 

In  things  that  move,  things  that  are  still; 


[56] 


[57] 


Thin  motion,  even  cloudier  rest, 

I  see  the  symbols  God  hath  drest. 

The  moveless  trees,  the  trees  that  wave 

The  clouds  that  heavenly  highways  have, 

Horses  that  run,  rocks  that  are  fixt. 

Streams  that  have  rest  and  motion  mixt, 

The  main  with  its  abiding  flux, 

The  wind  that  up  my  chimney  sucks 

A  mounting  waterfall  of  flame, 

Sticks,  straws,  dust,  beetles  and  that  same 

Old  blazing  sun  the  Psalmist  saw 

A  testifier  to  the  law: 

Divinely  to  the  heart  they  speak 

Saying  how  they  are  but  weak. 

Wan  will-o'-the-wisps  on  the  crystal  sea; 

But  stays  that  sea  still  dark  to  me. 

Did  I  now  glibly  insolent 

Chart  the  ulterior  firmament. 

Would  you  not  know  my  words  were  lies. 

Where  not  my  testimonial  eyes 

Mortal  or  spiritual  lodge. 

Mere  uncorroborated  fudge? 

Praise  me,  though  praise  I  do  not  want, 

Rather,  that  I  have  cast  much  cant. 

That  what  I  see  and  feel  I  write. 

Read  what  I  can  in  this  dim  light 

Granted  to  me  in  nether  night. 

And  though  I  am  vague  and  shrink  to  guess 

God's  everlasting  purposes, 

And  never  save  in  perplext  dream 

Have  caught  the  least  clear-shapen  gleam 

Of  the  great  kingdom  and  the  throne 


In  the  world  that  lies  behind  our  own, 

I  have  not  lacked  my  certainties, 

I  have  not  haggard  moaned  the  skies, 

Nor  waged  unnecessary  strife 

Nor  scorned  nor  overvalued  life. 

And  though  you  say  my  attitude 

Is  questioning,  concede  my  mood 

Does  never  bring  to  tongue  or  pen 

Accents  of  gloomy  modern  men 

Wlio  wail  or  hail  the  death  of  God 

And  weigh  and  measure  man  the  clod. 

Or  say  they  draw  reluctant  breath 

And  musically  mourn  that  Death 

Is  a  queen  omnipotent  of  woe 

And  Life  her  lean  cicisbeo, 

Abject  and  pale,  whom  vampire-like 

She  playeth  with  ere  she  shall  strike, 

And  pose  sad  riddles  to  the  Sphinx 

With  raven  quills  in  purple  inks. 

Then  send  the  boy  to  fetch  more  drinks. 


[58] 


IN  THE  PARIC 


[59] 


This  dense  hard  ground  I  tread. 
These  iron  bars  that  ripple  past, 
Will  they  unshaken  stand  when  I  am  dead 
And  my  deep  thoughts  outlast? 

Is  it  my  spirit  slips. 

Falls,  like  this  leaf  I  kick  aside; 

This  firmness  that  I  feel  about  my  lips, 

Is  it  but  empty  pride? 

Mute  knowledge  conquers  me; 

I  contemplate  them  as  they  are, 

Faint  earth  and  shadowy  bars  that  shake  and  flee. 

Less  hard,  more  transient  far 

Than  those  unbodied  hues 

The  sunset  flings  on  the  calm  river; 

And,  as  I  look,  a  swiftness  thrills  my  shoes 

And  my  hands  with  empire  quiver. 

Now  light  the  ground  I  tread, 
I  walk  not  now  but  rather  float; 
Clear  but  unreal  is  the  scene  outspread, 
Pitiful,  thin,  remote. 

Poor  vapour  is  the  grass. 

So  frail  the  tree§  and  railings  seem, 


That,  did  I  sweep  my  hand  around,  'twould  pass 
Through  them,  as  in  a  dream. 

Godlike  I  fear  no  changes; 
Shatter  the  world  with  thunders  loud. 
Still  would  I  ray-like  flit  about  the  ranges 
Of  dark  and  ruddy  cloud. 


[60] 


IN  AN  ORCHARD 


Airy  and  quick  and  wise 
In  the  shed  light  of  the  sun, 

You  clasp  with  friendly  eyes 

The  thoughts  from  mine  that  run. 

But  something  breaks  the  link; 

I  solitary  stand 
By  a  giant  gully's  brink 

In  some  vast  gloomy  land. 

Sole  central  watcher,  I 

With  steadfast  sadness  now 

In  that  waste  place  descry 

'Neath  the  awful  heavens  how 

Your  life  doth  dizzy  drop 

A  little  foam  of  flame 
From  a  peak  without  a  top 

To  a  pit  without  a  name. 


[61] 


THE  SHIP 


There  was  no  song  nor  shout  of  joy 

Nor  beam  of  moon  or  sun, 
When  she  came  back  from  the  voyage 

Long  ago  begun; 
But  twilight  on  the  waters 

Was  quiet  and  grey, 
And  she  glided  steady,  steady  and  pensive. 

Over  the  open  bay. 

Her  sails  were  brown  and  ragged, 

And  her  crew  hollow-eyed, 
But  their  silent  lips  spoke  content 

And  their  shoulders  pride; 
Though  she  had  no  captives  on  her  deck, 

And  in  her  hold 
There  were  no  heaps  of  corn  or  timber 

Or  silks  or  gold. 


[621 


ODE:  IN  A  RESTAURANT 

In  this  dense  hall  of  green  and  gold, 
Mirrors  and  lights  and  steam,  there  sit 
Two  hundred  munching  men; 
While  several  score  of  others  flit 
Like  scurrying  beetles  over  a  fen. 
With  plates  in  fanlike  spread;  or  fold 
Napkins,  or  jerk  the  corks  from  bottles, 
Ministers  to  greedy  throttles. 
Some  make  noises  while  they  eat. 
Pick  their  teeth  or  shuffle  their  feet. 
Wipe  their  noses  'neath  eyes  that  range 
Or  frown  whilst  waiting  for  their  change. 
Gobble,  gobble,  toil  and  trouble. 
Soul !  this  life  is  very  strange, 
And  circumstances  very  foul 
Attend  the  belly's  stormy  howl. 

How  horrible  this  noise!  this  air  how  thick! 

It  is  disgusting  ...  I  feel  sick  .  .  . 

Loosely  I  prod  the  table  with  a  fork. 

My  mind  gapes,  dizzies,  ceases  to  work  .  .  . 


The  weak  unsatisfied  strain 
Of  a  band  in  another  room 
Through  this  dull  complex  din 
Comes  winding  thin  and  sharp ! 
[63] 


The  gnat-like  mourning  of  the  violin, 

The  faint  stings  of  the  harp. 
The  sounds  pierce  in  and  die  again, 
Like  keen-drawn  threads  of  ink  dropped  into  a  glass 
Of  water,  which  curl  and  relax  and  soften  and  pass. 
Briefly  the  music  hovers  in  unstable  poise, 
Then  melts  away,  drowned  in  the  heavy  sea  of  noise. 

And  I,  I  am  now  emasculate. 

All  my  forces  dissipate; 

Conquered  by  matter  utterly. 

Moving  not,  willing  not,  I  lie. 

Like  a  man  whom  timbers  pin 

When  the  roof  of  a  mine  falls  in. 

Halt!   ...  as  a  cloud  condenses 

I  press  my  mind,  recover 

Dominion  of  my  senses. 

With  newly  flowing  blood 

I  lift,  and  now  float  over 

The  restaurant's  expanses 
Like  a  draggled  sea-gull  over  dreary  flats  of  mud. 

An  eff^ort  ...  ah  ...  I  urge  and  push, 

And  now  with  greater  strength  I  flush, 

The  hall  is  full  of  my  pinions'  rush; 

No  drooping  now,  the  place  is  mine. 

Beating  the  walls  with  shattering  wings, 

Over  the  herd  my  spirit  swings, 

In  triumph  shouts  "Aha,  you  swine! 

Grovel  before  your  lord  divine! 

I,  only  I,  am  real  here!   .  .  ." 

Through  the  uncertain  firmament, 

Still  bestial  in  their  dull  content. 

The  despicable  phantoms  leer  .  .  . 

Hogs!  even  now  in  my  right  hand 
[64] 


I  hold  at  my  will  the  thunderbolts 
Measured  not  in  mortal  volts, 
Would  crash  you  to  annihilation! 
Lit  with  a  new  illumination, 
What  need  I  of  ears  and  eyes 
Of  flesh?     Imperious  I  will  rise, 
Dominate  you  as  a  god 
Who  only  does  not  trouble  to  wield  the  rod 
Of  death,  or  kick  your  weak  spheroid 
Like  a  football  through  the  void ! 

•  •••••• 

Ha!  was  it  but  a  dream? 

And  did  it  merely  seem? 

Ha !  not  yet  free  of  your  cage. 

Soul,  spite  of  all  your  rage? 

Come  now,  this  foe  engage! 

With  explosion  of  your  might 

Oh  heave,  oh  leap  and  flash  up,  soul. 

Like  a  stabbing  scream  in  the  night! 

Hurl  aside  this  useless  bowl 

Of  a  body  .  .  . 

But  there  comes  a  shock 

A  soft,  tremendous  shock 
Of  contact  with  the  body;  I  lose  all  power. 
And  fall  back,  back,  like  a  solitary  rower 
Whose  prow  that  debonair  the  waves  did  ride 
Is  suddenly  hurled  back  by  an  iron  tide. 
0  sadness,  sadness,  feel  the  returning  pain 
Of  touch  with  unescapable  mortal  things  again! 

The  cloth  is  linen,  the  floor  is  wood, 

My  plate  holds  cheese,  my  tumbler  toddy; 

I  cannot  get  free  of  the  body. 

And  no  man  ever  could. 

•  •  •  •  •  t  t 

[65] 


Self!  do  not  lose  your  hold  on  life, 
Nor  coward  seek  to  shrink  the  strife 
Of  body  and  spirit;  even  now 
(Not  for  the  first  time),  even  now 
Clear  in  your  ears  has  rung  the  message 
That  tense  abstraction  is  the  passage 
To  nervelessness  and  living  death. 
Never  forget  while  you  draw  breath 
That  all  the  hammers  of  will  can  never 
Your  chained  soul  from  matter  sever; 
And  though  it  be  confused  and  mixed. 
This  is  the  world  in  which  you're  fixed. 
Never  despise  the  things  that  are. 
Set  your  teeth  upon  the  grit. 
Though  your  heart  like  a  motor  beat, 
Hold  fast  this  earthly  star, 
The  whole  of  it,  the  whole  of  it. 

Look  on  this  crowd  now,  calm  now,  look. 
Remember  now  that  each  one  drew 
Woman's  milk  (which  you  partook) 
And  year  by  year  in  wonder  grew. 
Scorn  not  them,  nor  scorn  not  their  feasts 
(Which  you  partake)  nor  call  them  beasts. 
These  be  children  of  one  Power 
With  you,  nor  higher  you  nor  lower. 
They  also  hear  the  harp  and  fiddle. 
And  sometimes  quail  before  the  riddle. 
They  also  have  hot  blood,  quick  thought. 
And  try  to  do  the  things  they  ought. 
They  also  have  hearts  that  ache  when  stung. 
And  sigh  for  days  when  they  were  young, 
And  curse  their  wills  because  they  falter. 
And  know  that  they  will  never  alter. 
[66] 


See  these  men  in  a  world  o£  meri. 

Material  bodies? — yes,  what  then? 

These  coarse  trunks  that  here  you  see 

Judge  them  not,  lest  judged  you  be, 

Bow  not  to  the  moment's  curse, 

Nor  make  four  walls  a  universe. 

Think  of  these  bodies  here  assembled. 

Whence  they  have  come,  where  they  have  trembled 

With  the  strange  force  that  fills  us  all. 

Men  and  beasts  both  great  and  small. 

Here  within  this  fleeting  home 

Two  hundred  men  have  this  day  come; 

Here  collected  for  one  day, 

Each  shall  go  his  separate  way. 

Self,  you  can  imagine  nought 

Of  all  the  battles  they  have  fought, 

All  the  labours  they  have  done. 

All  the  journeys  they  have  run. 

0,  they  have  come  from  all  the  world, 

Borne  by  invisible  currents,  swirled 

Like  leaves  into  this  vortex  here 

Flying,  or  like  the  spirits  drear 

Windborne  and  frail,  whom  Dante  saw, 

Who  yet  obeyed  some  hidden  law. 

Is  it  not  miraculous 

That  they  should  here  be  gathered  thus, 

All  to  be  spread  before  your  view. 

Who  are  strange  to  them  as  they  to  you? 
Soul,  how  can  you  sustain  without  a  sob, 
The  lightest  thought  of  this  titanic  throb 

Of  earthly  life,  that  swells  and  breaks 

Into  leaping  scattering  waves  of  fire, 

[67] 


Into  tameless  tempests  of  effort  and  storms  of  desire 

That  eternally  makes 
The  confused  glittering  armies  of  humankind, 

To  their  own  heroism  blind, 
Swarm  over  the  earth  to  build,  to  dig,  and  to  till, 
To  mould  and  compel  land  and  sea  to  their  will  .  .  . 
Whence  we  are  here  eating  .  .  . 

Standing  here  as  on  a  high  hill. 
Strain,  my  imagination,  strain  forth  to  embrace 
The  energies  that  labour  for  this  place. 
This  place,  this  instant.     Beyond  your  island's  verge, 
Listen,  and  hear  the  roaring  impulsive  surge. 
The  clamour  of  voices,  the  blasting  of  powder,  the  clanging 

of  steel, 
The  thunder  of  hammers,  the  rattle  of  oars  .  .  . 

For  this  one  meal 
Ten  thousand  Indian  hamlets  stored  their  yields, 
Manchurian  peasants  sweltered  in  their  fields. 
And  Greeks  drove  carts  to  Patras,  and  lone  men 
Saw  burning  summer  come  and  go  again 
And  huddled  from  the  winds  of  winter  on 
The  fertile  deserts  of  Saskatchewan. 

To  fabricate  these  things  have  been  marchings  and  slaughters, 
The  sun  has  toiled  and  the  moon  has  moved  the  waters, 
Cities  have  laboured,  and  crowded  plains,  and   deep  in  the 

earth 
Men  have  plunged  unafraid  with  ardour  to  wrench  the  worth 
Of  sweating  dim-lit  caverns,  and  paths  have  been  hewn 
Through  forests  where  for  uncounted  years  nor  sun  nor  moon 
Have  penetrated,  men  have  driven  straight  shining  rails 
Through  the  dense  bowels  of  mountains,   and  climbed  their 
frozen   tops,   and   wrinkled  sailors  have   shouted   at 
shouting  gales 
In  the  huge  Pacific,  and  battled  around  the  Horn 
[68] 


And  gasping,  coasted  to  Rio,  and  turning  towards  the  morn, 
Fought  over  the  wastes  to  Spain,  and  battered  and  worn, 
Sailed  up  the  Channel,  and  on  into  the  Nore 
To  the  city  of  masts  and  the  smoky  familiar  shore. 

So,  so  of  every  substance  you  see  around 

Might  a  tale  be  unwound 
Of  perils  passed,  of  adventurous  journeys  made 
In  man's  undying  and  stupendous  crusade. 

This  flower  of  man's  energies  Trade 

Brought  hither  to  hand  and  lip 

By  waggon,  train  or  ship. 

Each  atom  that  we  eat.  .  .  . 

Stare  at  the  wine,  stare  at  the  meat. 

The  mutton  which  these  platters  fills 

Grazed  upon  a  thousand  hills; 

This  bread  so  square  and  white  and  dry 

Once  was  corn  that  sang  to  the  sky; 

And  all  these  spruce,  obedient  wines 

Flowed  from  the  vatted  fruit  of  vines 

That  trailed,  a  bright  maternal  host. 

The  warm  Mediterranean  coast. 

Or  spread  their  Bacchic  mantle  on 

That  Iberian  Helicon 

Where  the  slopes  of  Portugal 

Crown  the  Atlantic's  eastern  wall. 

0  mighty  energy,  never-failing  flame! 

0  patient  toils  and  journeys  in  the  name 

Of  Trade!     No  journey  ever  was  the  same 

As  another,  nor  ever  came  again  one  task; 

And  each  man's  face  is  an  ever-changing  mask. 

From  the  minutest  cell  to  the  lordliest  star 

All  things  are  unique,  though  all  of  their  kindred  are, 

[69] 


And  though  all  things  exist  for  ever,  all  life  is  change. 

And  the  oldest  passions   come  to  each  heart  in   a   garment 
strange. 

Though  life  be  as  brief  as  a  flower  and  the  body  but  dust, 

Man  walks  the  earth  holding  both  body  and  spirit  in  trust; 

And  the  various  glories  of  sense  are  spread  for  his  delight, 

New  pageants  glow  in  the  sunset,  new  stars  are  born  in  the 
night, 

And  clouds  come  every  day,  and  never  a  shape  recurs, 

And  the  grass  grows  every  year,  yet  never  the  same  blade  stirs 

Another  spring,  and  no  delving  man  breaks  again  the  self- 
same clod 

As  he  did   last  year  though  he  stand  once  more  where  last 
year  he  trod. 

0  wonderful  procession  fore-ordained  by  God! 

Wonderful  in  unity,  wonderful  in  diversity. 
Contemplate  it,  soul,  and  see 

How  the  material  universe  moves  and  strives  with  anguish  and 
glee! 

•  •*•••••• 

I  was  born  for  that  reason. 

With  muscles,  heart  and  eyes, 
To  watch  each  following  season. 

To  work  and  to  be  wise; 
Not  body  and  mind  to  tether 

To  unseen  things  alone. 
But  to  traverse  together 

The  known  and  the  unknown. 
My  muscles  were  not  welded 

To  waste  away  in  sleep. 
My  bones  were  never  builded 

To  throw  upon  a  heap. 
"Man  worships  God  in  action," 

Senses  and  reason  call, 
[70] 


"And  thought  is  putrefaction, 
If  thought  is  all  in  all!" 


'b^ 


Most  of  the  guests  are  gone;  look  over  there, 

Against  a  pillar  leans  with  absent  air 

A  tall,  dark,  pallid  waiter.     There  he  stands 

Limply,  with  vacant  eyes  and  listless  hands. 

He  dreams  of  some  small  Tyrolean  town, 

A  church,  a  bridge,  a  stream  that  rushes  down.  .  . 

A  frustrate,  hankering  man,  this  one  short  time 

Unconscious  he  into  my  gaze  did  climb; 

He  sinks  again,  again  he  is  but  one 

Of  many  myriads  underneath  the  sun. 

Now  faint,  now  vivid.  .  .  .  How  puzzling  is  it  all! 

For  now  again,  in  spite  of  all. 

The  lights,  the  chairs,  the  diners,  and  the  hall 

Lose  their  opacity. 

Fool!  exert  your  will. 
Finish  your  whisky  up,  and  pay  your  bill. 


[71] 


FAITH 


When  I  see  truth,  do  I  see  truth 

Only  that  I  may  things  denote, 
And,  rich  by  striving,  deck  my  youth 

As  with  a  vain  unusual  coat? 

Or  seek  I  truth  for  other  ends: 
That  she  in  other  hearts  may  stir, 

That  even  my  most  familiar  friends 
May  turn  from  me  to  look  on  her? 

So  I  this  day  myself  was  asking; 

Out  of  the  window  skies  were  blue 
And  Thames  was  in  the  sunlight  basking; 

My  thoughts  coiled  inwards  like  a  screw. 

I  watched  them  anxious  for  a  while; 

Then  quietly,  as  I  did  watch, 
Spread  in  my  soul  a  sudden  smile: 

I  knew  that  no  firm  thing  they'd  catch. 

And  I  remembered  if  I  leapt 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  wind 
It  would  sustain  me;  question  slept; 

I  felt  that  I  had  almost  sinned. 


[72] 


A  FRESH  MORNING 


Now  am  I  a  tin  whistle 

Through  which  God  blows, 

And  I  wish  to  God  I  were  a  trumpet 

— But  why,  God  only  knows. 


[73] 


INTERIOR 


I  AND  myself  swore  enmity.     Alack, 
Myself  has  tied  my  hands  behind  my  back. 
Yielding,  I  know  there's  no  excuse  in  them- 
I  was  accomplice  to  the  stratagem. 


[74] 


ON  A  FRIEND  RECENTLY  DEAD 


The  stream  goes  fast. 

When  this  that  is  the  present  is  the  past, 

'Twill  be  as  all  the  other  pasts  have  been, 

A  failing  hill,  a  daily  dimming  scene, 

A  far  strange  port  with  foreign  life  astir 

The  ship  has  left  behind,  the  voyager 

Will  never  return  to;  no,  nor  see  again. 

Though  with  a  heart  full  of  longing  he  may  strain 

Back  to  project  himself,  and  once  more  count 

The  boats,  the  whitened  walls  that  climbed  the  mount, 

Mark  the  cathedral's  roof,  the  gathered  spires. 

The  vanes,  the  windows  red  with  sunset's  fires. 

The  gap  of  the  market-place,  and  watch  again 

The  coloured  groups  of  women,  and  the  men 

Lounging  at  ease  along  the  low  stone  wall 

That  fringed  the  harbour;  and  there  beyond  it  all 

High  pastures  morning  and  evening  scattered  with  small 

Specks  that  were  grazing  sheep.  ...  It  is  all  gone. 

It  is  all  blurred  that  once  so  brightly  shone; 

He  cannot  now  with  the  old  clearness  see 

The  rust  upon  one  ringbolt  of  the  quay. 

II 

And  yesterday  is  dead,  and  you  are  dead. 
Your  duplicate  that  hovered  in  my  head 

[75] 


Thins  like  blown  wreathing  smoke,  your  features  grow 

To  interrupted  outlines,  and  all  will  go 

Unless  I  fight  dispersal  with  my  will  .  .  . 

So  I  shall  do  it  .  .  .  but  too  conscious  still 

That,  when  we  walked  together,  had  I  known 

How  soon  your  journey  was  to  end  alone, 

I  should  not,  now  that  you  have  gone  from  view, 

Be  gathering  derelict  odds  and  ends  of  you; 

But  in  the  intense  lucidity  of  pain 

Your  likeness  would  have  burnt  into  my  brain. 

I  did  not  know;  lovable  and  unique, 

As  volatile  as  a  bubble  and  as  weak, 

You  sat  with  me,  and  my  eyes  registered 

This  thing  and  that,  and  sluggishly  I  heard 

Your  voice,  remembering  here  and  there  a  word. 

Ill 

So  in  my  mind  there's  not  much  left  of  you. 

And  that  disintegrates;  but  while  a  few 

Patches  of  memory's  mirror  still  are  bright 

Nor  your  reflected  image  there  has  quite 

Faded  and  slipped  away,  it  will  be  well 

To  search  for  each  surviving  syllable 

Of  voice  and  body  and  soul.     And  some  I'll  find 

Right  to  my  hand,  and  some  tangled  and  blind 

Among  the  obscure  weeds  that  fill  the  mind. 

A  pause.  .  .  . 

I  plunge  my  thought's  hooked  resolute  claws 

Deep  in  the  turbid  past.     Like  drowned  things  in  the  jaws 

Of  grappling-irons,  your  features  to  the  verge 

Of  conscious  knowledge  one  by  one  emerge. 

Can  I  not  make  these  scattered  things  unite?  .  .  . 

I  knit  my  brows  and  clench  my  eyelids  tight 

And  focus  to  a  point.  .   .  .  Streams  of  dark  pinkish  light 

[76] 


Convolve;  and  now  spasmodically  there  flit 

Clear  pictures  of  you  as  you  used  to  sit: — 

The  way  you  crossed  your  legs  stretched  in  your  chair, 

Elbow  at  rest  and  tumbler  in  the  air, 

Jesting  on  books  and  politics  and  worse, 

And  still  good  company  when  most  perverse. 

Capricious  friend! 

Here  in  this  room  not  long  before  the  end. 

Here  in  this  very  room  six  months  ago 

You  poised  your  foot  and  joked  and  chuckled  so. 

Beyond  the  window  shook  the  ash-tree  bough, 

You  saw  books,  pictures,  as  I  see  them  now. 

The  sofa  then  was  blue,  the  telephone 

Listened  upon  the  desk,  and  softly  shone 

Even  as  now  the  fire-irons  in  the  grate. 

And  the  little  brass  pendulum  swung,  a  seal  of  fate 

Stamping  the  minutes;  and  the  curtains  on  window  and  door 

Just  moved  in  the  air;  and  on  the  dark  boards  of  the  floor 

These  same  discreetly-coloured  rugs  were  lying  .  .  . 

And  then  you  never  had  a  thought  of  dying. 

IV 

You  are  not  here,  and  all  the  things  in  the  room 
Watch  me  alone  in  the  gradual  growing  gloom. 
The  you  that  thought  and  felt  are  I  know  not  where. 
The  you  that  sat  and  drank  in  the  arm-chair 

Will  never  sit  there  again. 

For  months  you  have  lain 

Under  a  graveyard's  green 

In  some  place  abroad  where  I've  never  been. 

Perhaps  there  is  a  stone  over  you. 

Or  only  the  wood  and  the  earth  and  the  giass  cover  you. 
But  it  doesn't  much  matter;  for  dead  and  decayed  you  lie 
Like  a  million  million  others  who  felt  they  would  never  die, 
[77] 


Like  Alexander  and  Helen  the  beautiful, 

And  the  last  collier  hanged  for  murdering  his  trull; 

All  done  with  and  buried  in  an  equal  bed. 


Yes,  you  are  dead  like  all  the  other  dead. 

You  are  not  here,  but  I  am  here  alone. 

And  evening  falls,  fusing  tree,  water  and  stone 

Into  a  violet  cloth,  and  the  frail  ash-tree  hisses 

With  a  soft  sharpness  like  a  fall  of  mounded  grain. 

And  a  steamer  softly  puffing  along  the  river  passes, 

Drawing  a  file  of  barges;  and  silence  falls  again. 

And  a  bell  tones;  and  the  evening  darkens;  and  in  sparse  rank 

The  greenish  lights  well  out  along  the  other  bank. 

I  have  no  force  left  now;  the  sights  and  sounds  impinge 

Upon  me  unresisted,  like  raindrops  on  the  mould. 

And,  striving  not  against  my  melancholy  mood. 

Limp  as  a  door  that  hangs  upon  one  failing  hinge, 

Limp,  with  slack  marrowless  arms  and  thighs,  I  sit  and  brood 

On  death  and  death  and  death.     And  quiet,  thin  and  cold, 

Following  of  this  one  friend  the  hopeless,  helpless  ghost. 

The  weak  appealing  wraiths  of  notable  men  of  old 

Who  died,  pass  through  the  air;  and  then,  host  after  host. 

Innumerable,  overwhelming,  without  form. 

Rolling  across  the  sky  in  awful  silent  storm. 

The  myriads  of  the  undifferentiated  dead 

Whom  none  recorded,  or  of  whom  the  record  faded. 

0  spectacle  appallingly  sublime! 

1  see  the  universe  one  long  disastrous  strife, 

And  in  the  staggering  abysses  of  backward  and  forward  time 

Death  chasing  hard  upon  the  heels  of  creating  life. 

And  I,  I  see  myself  as  one  of  a  heap  of  stones 

Wetted  a  moment  to  life  as  the  flying  wave  goes  over. 

Onward  and  never  returning,  leaving  no  mark  behind. 

[78] 


There's  nothing  to  hope  for.     Blank  cessation  numbs  my  mind, 
And  I  feel  my  heart  thumping  gloomy  against  its  cover, 
My  heavy  belly  hanging  from  my  bones. 

VI 

Below  in  the  dark  street 

There  is  a  tap  of  feet, 

I  rise  and  angrily  meditate 

How  often  I  have  let  of  late 

This  thought  of  death  come  over  me. 

How  often  I  will  sit  and  backward  trace 

The  deathly  history  of  the  human  race, 

The  ripples  of  men  who  chattered  and  were  still, 

Known  and  unknown,  older  and  older,  until 

Before  man's  birth  I  fall,  shivering  and  aghast 

Through  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  remotest  past; 

Till  painfully  my  spirit  throws 

Her  giddiness  off;  and  then  as  soon 
As  I  recover  and  try  to  think  again. 
Life  seems  like  death;  and  all  my  body  grows 

Icily  cold,  and  all  my  brain 
Cold  as  the  jagged  craters  of  the  moon.  .  .  . 
And  I  wonder  is  it  not  strange  that  I 
Who  thus  have  heard  eternity's  black  laugh 

And  felt  its  freezing  breath. 
Should  sometimes  shut  it  out  from  memory 
So  as  to  play  quite  prettily  with  death. 

And  turn  an  easy  epitaph? 

I  can  hear  a  voice  whispering  in  my  brain: 

"Why  this  is  the  old  futility  again! 

Criminal !  day  by  day 

Your  own  life  is  ebbing  swiftly  away. 

And  what  have  you  done  with  it, 

[79] 


Except  to  become  a  maudlin  hypocrite?" 

Yes,  I  know,  I  know; 
One  should  not  think  of  death  or  the  dead  overmuch;   but 

one's  mind's  made  so 
That  at  certain  times  the  roads  of  thought  all  lead  to  death, 
And  false  reasoning  clouds  one's  soul  as  a  window  with  breath 

Is  clouded  in  winter's  air, 

And  all  the  faith  one  may  have 
Lies  useless  and  dead  as  a  body  in  the  grave. 


[80] 


THE  MARCH 

I  HEARD  a  voice  that  cried,  "Make  way  for  those  who  died!" 
And  all  the  coloured  crowd  like  ghosts  at  morning  fled; 
And  down  the  waiting  road,  rank  after  rank  there  strode, 
In  mute  and  measured  march  a  hundred  thousand  dead. 

A  hundred  thousand  dead,  with  firm  and  noiseless  tread. 
All  shadowy-grey  yet  solid,  with  faces  grey  and  ghast. 
And  by  the  house  they  went,  and  all  their  brows  were  bent 
Straight  forward;  and  they  passed,  and  passed,  and  passed, 
and  passed. 

But  0  there  came  a  place,  and  0  there  came  a  face. 
That  clenched  my  heart  to  see  it,  and  sudden  turned  my  way; 
And  in  the  Face  that  turned  I  saw  two  eyes  that  burned. 
Never-forgotten  eyes,  and  they  had  things  to  say. 

Like  desolate  stars  they  shone  one  moment,  and  were  gone. 
And  I  sank  down  and  put  my  arms  across  my  head. 
And  felt  them  moving  past,  nor  looked  to  see  the  last. 
In  steady  silent  march,  our  hundred  tliousand  dead. 


[81] 


PROLOGUE: IN  DARKNESS 

With  my  sleeping  beloved  huddled  tranquil  beside  me,  why 

do  I  lie  awake, 
Listening  to  the  loud  clock's  hurry  in  the  darkness,  and  feeling 

my  heart's  fierce  ache 
That  beats  one  response  to  the  brain's  many  questionings,  and 

in  solitude  bears  the  weight 
Of  all  the  world's  evil  and  misery  and  frustration,  and  the 

senseless  pressure  of  fate? 

Is  it  season  of  ploughing  and  sowing,  this  long  vigil,  that  so 

certainly  it  recurs? 
In  this  unsought  return  of  a  pain  that  was  ended,  is  it  here 

that  a  song  first  stirs? 
Can  it  be  that  from  this,  when  tonight's  gone  from  memory, 

there  will  spring  of  a  sudden,  some  time. 
Like   a   silver   lily   breaking   from   black  deadly   waters,   the 

thin-blown  shape  of  a  rhyme? 


[82] 


THE  LILY  OF  MALUD 

The  lily  of  Malud  is  born  in  secret  mud. 

It  is  breathed  like  a  word  in  a  little  dark  ravine 

Where  no  bird  was  ever  heard  and  no  beast  was  ever  seen, 

And  the  leaves  are  never  stirred  by  the  panther's  velvet  sheen. 

It  blooms  once  a  year  in  summer  moonlight, 

In  a  valley  of  dark  fear  full  of  pale  moonlight: 

It  blooms  once  a  year,  and  dies  in  a  night. 

And  its  petals  disappear  with  the  dawn's  first  light; 

And  when  that  night  has  come,  black  small-breasted  maids. 

With  ecstatic  terror  dumb,  steal  fawn-like  through  the  shades 

To  watch,  hour  by  hour,  the  unfolding  of  the  flower. 

When  the  world  is  full  of  night,  and  the  moon  reigns  alone 
And  drowns  in  silver  light  the  known  and  the  unknown. 
When  each  hut  is  a  mound,  half  blue  silver  and  half  black, 
And  casts  upon  the  ground  the  hard  shadow  of  its  back. 
When  the  winds  are  out  of  hearing  and  the  tree-tops  never 

shake. 
When  the  grass  in  the  clearing  is  silent  but  awake 
'Neath  a  moon-paven  sky:  all  the  village  is  asleep 
And  the  babes  that  nightly  cry  dream  deep: 

From  the  doors  the  maidens  creep. 
Tiptoe  over  dreaming  curs,  soft,  so  soft,  that  not  one  stirs, 
And  stand  curved  and  a-quiver,  like  bathers  by  a  river. 
Looking  at  the  forest  wall,  groups  of  slender  naked  girls. 
Whose  black  bodies  shine  like  pearls  where  the  moonbeams 

fall. 
[83] 


They  have  waked,  they  knew  not  why,  at  a  summons  from  the 

night, 
They  have  stolen  fearfully  from  the  dark  to  the  light, 
Stepping  over  sleeping  men,  who  have  moved  and  slept  again: 
And  they  know  not  why  they  go  to  the  forest,  but  they  know, 
As  their  moth-feet  pass  to  the  shore  of  the  grass 
And    the    forest's    dreadful    brink,    that    their    tender    spirits 

shrink: 
They  would  flee,  but  cannot  turn,  for  their  eyelids  burn 
With  frenzy,  and  each  maid,  ere  she  leaves  the  moonlit  space, 
If  she  sees  another's  face  is  thrilled  and  afraid. 

Now  like  little  phantom  fawns  they  thread  the  outer  lawns 
Where  the  boles  of  giant  trees  stand  about  in  twos  and  threes. 
Till    the    forest   grows   more   dense    and    the   darkness    more 

intense, 
And  they  only  sometimes  see  in  a  lone  moon-ray 
A  dead  and  spongy  trunk  in  the  earth  half-simk, 
Or  the  roots  of  a  tree  with  fungus  grey. 
Or  a  drift  of  muddy  leaves,  or  a  banded  snake  that  heaves. 

And  the  towering  unseen  roof  grows  more  intricate,  and  soon 

It  is  featureless  and  proof  to  the  lost  forgotten  moon. 

But  they  could  not  look  above  as  with  blind-drawn  feet  they 

move 
Onwards   on   the   scarce-felt   path,   with   quick   and   desperate 

breath. 
For  their  circling  fingers  dread  to  caress  some  slimy  head, 
Or  to  touch  the  icy  shape  of  a  hunched  and  hairy  ape, 
And  at  every  step  they  fear  in  their  very  midst  to  hear 
A  lion's  rending  roar  or  a  tiger's  snore.  .  .  . 
And  when  things  swish  or  fall,  they  shiver  but  dare  not  call. 

0  what  is  it  leads  the  way  that  they  do  not  stray? 
What  unimagined  arm  keeps  their  bodies  from  harm? 

[84] 


What  presence  concealed  lifts  their  little  feet  that  yield 

Over  dry  ground  and  wet  till  their  straining  eyes  are  met 

With  a  thinning  of  the  darkness? 

And  the  foremost  faintly  cries  in  awed  surprise: 

And  they  one  by  one  emerge  from  the  gloom  to  the  verge 

Of  a  small  sunken  vale  full  of  moonlight  pale. 

And  they  hang  along  the  bank,  clinging  to  the  branches  dank, 

A  shadowy  festoon  out  of  sight  of  the  moon; 

And  they  see  in  front  of  them,  rising  from  the  mud 

A  single  straight  stem  and  a  single  pallid  bud 

In  that  little  lake  of  light  from  the  moon's  calm  height. 

A  stem,  a  ghostly  bud,  on  the  moon-swept  mud 
That  shimmers  like  a  pond;  and  over  there  beyond 
The  guardian  forest  high,  menacing  and  strange, 
Invades  the  empty  sky  with  its  wild  black  range. 

And  they  watch  hour  by  hour  that  small  lonely  flower 
In  that  deep  forest  place  that  hunter  never  found. 

It  shines  without  sound,  as  a  star  in  space. 

And  the  silence  all  around  that  solitary  place 

Is  like  silence  in  a  dream;  till  a  sudden  flashing  gleam 

Down  their  dark  faces  flies;  and  their  lips  fall  apart 

And  their  glim.mering  great  eyes  with  excitement  dart 

And  their  fingers,  clutching  the  branches  they  were  touching, 

Shake  and  arouse  hissing  leaves  on  the  boughs. 

And  they  whisper  aswoon:  Did  it  move  in  the  moon? 

0  it  moved  as  it  grew! 

It  is  moving,  opening,  with  calm  and  gradual  will. 
And  their  bodies  where  they  cling  are  shadowed  and  still 
And  with  marvel  they  mark  that  the  mud  now  is  dark 

[85] 


For  the  unfolding  flower,  like  a  goddess  in  her  power, 

Challenges  the  moon  with  a  light  of  her  own, 

That  lovelily  grows  as  the  petals  unclose, 

Wider,  more  wide  with  an  awful  inward  pride. 

Till  the  heart  of  it  breaks,  and  stilled  is  their  breath, 

For  the  radiance  it  makes  is  as  wonderful  as  death. 

The  morning's  crimson  stain  tinges  their  ashen  brows 
As  they  part  the  last  boughs  and  slowly  step  again 
On  to  the  village  grass,  and  chill  and  languid  pass 
Into  the  huts  to  sleep. 

Brief  slumber,  yet  so  deep 
That,  when  they  wake  to  day,  darkness  and  splendour  seem 
Broken  and  far  away,  a  faint  miraculous  dream; 
And  when  those  maidens  rise  they  are  as  they  ever  were 
Save  only  for  a  rare  shade  of  trouble  in  their  eyes. 
And  the  surly  thick-lipped  men,  as  they  sit  about  their  huts 
Making  drums  out  of  guts,  grunting  gruffly  now  and  then. 
Carving  sticks  of  ivory,  stretching  shields  of  wrinkled  skin. 
Smoothing  sinister  and  thin  squatting  gods  of  ebony. 
Chip  and  grunt  and  do  not  see. 

But  each  mother,  silently, 
Longer  than  her  wont  stays  shut  in  the  dimness  of  her  hut. 
For  she  feels  a  brooding  cloud  of  memory  in  the  air, 
A  lingering  thing  there  that  makes  her  sit  bowed 
With  hollow  shining  eyes,  as  the  night-fire  dies, 
And  stare  softly  at  the  ember,  and  try  to  remember 
Something  sorrowful  and  far,  something  sweet  and  vaguely 

seen 
Like  an  early  evening  star  when  the  sky  is  pale  green: 
A  quiet  silver  tower  that  climbed  in  an  hour, 
Or  a  ghost  like  a  flower,  or  a  flower  like  a  queen: 
Something  holy  in  the  past  that  came  and  did  not  last. 

But  she  knows  not  what  it  was. 

[86] 


A  HOUSE 

Now  very  quietly,  and  rather  mournfully, 

In  clouds  of  hyacinth  the  sun  retires. 
And  all  the  stubble-fields  that  were  so  warm  to  him 

Keep  but  in  memory  their  borrowed  fires. 

And  I,  the  traveller,  break,  still  unsatisfied, 
From  that  faint  exquisite  celestial  strand, 

And  turn  and  see  again  the  only  dwelling-place 
In  this  wide  wilderness  of  darkening  land. 

The  house,  that  house,  0  now  what  change  has  come  to  it, 
Its  crude  red -brick  fagade,  its  roof  of  slate; 

What  imperceptible  swift  hand  has  given  it 
A  new,  a  wonderful,  a  queenly  state? 

No  hand  has  altered  it,  that  parallelogram, 

So  inharmonious,  so  ill  arranged; 
That  hard  blue  roof  in  shape  and  colour's  what  it  was; 

No,  it  is  not  that  any  line  has  changed. 

Only  that  loneliness  is  now  accentuate 

And,  as  the  dusk  unveils  the  heaven's  deep  cave, 

This  small  world's  feebleness  fills  me  with  awe  again, 
And  all  man's  energies  seem  very  brave. 

And  this  mean  edifice,  which  some  dull  architect 
Built  for  an  ignorant  earth-turning  hind, 
[87] 


Takes  on  the  quality  of  that  magnificent 
Unshakable  dauntlessness  of  human  kind. 

Darkness  and  stars  will  come,  and  long  the  night  will  be, 

Yet  imperturbable  that  house  will  rest, 
Avoiding  gallantly  the  stars'  chill  scrutiny. 

Ignoring  secrets  in  the  midnight's  breast. 

Thunders  may  shudder  it,  and  winds  demoniac 
May  howl  their  menaces,  and  hail  descend; 

Yet  it  will  bear  with  them,  serenely,  steadfastly, 
Not  even  scornfully,  and  wait  the  end. 

And  all  a  universe  of  nameless  messengers 
From  unknown  distances  may  whisper  fear, 

And  it  will  imitate  immortal  permanence. 
And  stare  and  stare  ahead  and  scarcely  hear. 

It  stood  there  yesterday;  it  will  tomorrow,  too, 
When  there  is  none  to  watch,  no  alien  eyes 

To  watch  its  ugliness  assume  a  majesty 
From  this  great  solitude  of  evening  skies. 

So  lone,  so  very  small,  with  worlds  and  worlds  around. 
While  life  remains  to  it  prepared  to  outface 

Whatever  awful  unconjectured  mysteries 
May  hide  and  wait  for  it  in  time  and  space. 


[88] 


BEHIND  THE  LINES 

The  wind  of  evening  cried  along  the  darkening  trees, 
Along  the  darkening  trees,  heavy  with  ancient  pain. 
Heavy  with  ancient  pain  from  faded  centuries, 
From  faded  centuries.  ...  0  foolish  thought  and  vain! 

0  foolish  thought  and  vain  to  think  the  wind  could  know, 
To  think  the  wind  could  know  the  griefs  of  men  who  died, 
The  griefs  of  men  who  died  and  mouldered  long  ago : 
"And  mouldered  long  ago,"  the  wind  of  evening  cried. 


[89] 


AIL\B  SONG 

When  her  eyes'  sudden  challenge  first  halted  my  feet  on  the 

path, 
I  stood  like  a  shivering  caught  fugitive,  and  strained  at  my 

breath, 
And  the  Truth  in  her  eyes  was  the  portent  of  Love  and  of 

Death, 
For  I  am  of  the  tribe  of  Ben  Asra,  who  die  when  they  love. 

0  you  who  have  faded  because  girls  were  contemptuous  and 

cold, 

1  pitied  you;  but  mine  I  have  won,  and  her  breast  I  enfold 
Despairina:.  and  in  asonv  lon2  for  the  thins  that  I  hold: 

For  I  am  of  tlie  tribe  of  Ben  Asra,  who  die  when  they  love. 

She  is  fair;  and  her  eyes  in  her  hair  are  like  stars  in  a  stream. 
She  is  kind:  never  vaporous  sleep-eddying  maid  in  a  dream 
Leaning  over  my  darkness-drowned   pillow  more  tender  did 

seem. 
But  her  beauty  and  sweetness  are  as  blasts  from  the  sands  of 

the  South. 
Drink  me,  palsy  me,  flay  me,  bleed  my  veins,  chain  my  limbs, 

choke  my  mouth, 
And  make  salt  to  my  lips  the  wine  that  should  temper  my 

drouth: 
For  I  am  of  the  tribe  of  Ben  Asra,  who  die  when  they  love. 

Death  must  come:  it  were  best  by  a  knife  in  her  hand  or  my 
[90] 


She'd  not  strike  and  I  dare  not,  but  here,  as  I  wander  alone, 
Should  the  wood  topple  over  at  a  beast  flying  out  like  a  stone 
I  shall  smile  in  its  face  at  her  image  bending  down  from  the 

sky, 
And  its  teeth  in  my  neck  will  be  hers,  and  its  snarls  as  I  die 
Will  be  gentle  and  sweet  to  my  ears  as  the  voice  of  the  dove: 
For  I  am  of  the  tribe  of  Ben  Asra,  who  die  when  they  love. 


[91] 


THE  STRONGHOLD 

Quieter  than  any  twilight 

Shed  over  earth's  last  deserts, 

Quiet  and  vast  and  shadowless 

Is  that  unfounded  keep, 

Higher  than  the  roof  of  the  night's  high  chamber 

Deep  as  the  shaft  of  sleep. 

And  solitude  will  not  cry  there, 
Melancholy  will  not  brood  there, 
Hatred,  with  its  sharp  corroding  pain. 
And  fear  will  not  come  there  at  all: 
Never  will  a  tear  or  a  heart-ache  enter 
Over  that  enchanted  wall. 

But,  0,  if  you  find  that  castle. 

Draw  back  your  foot  from  the  gateway, 

Let  not  its  peace  invite  you, 

Let  not  its  offerings  tempt  you. 
For  faded  and  decayed  like  a  garment, 
Love  to  a  dust  will  have  fallen, 
And  song  and  laughter  will  have  gone  with  sorrow. 
And  hope  will  have  gone  with  pain; 
And  of  all  the  throbbing  heart's  high  courage 
Nothing  will  remain. 


[92] 


TO  A  BULL-DOG 

{W.  H.  S.,  Capt.  [Acting  Major]  R.F.A.;  killed  April  12,  1917) 

We  sha'n't  see  Willy  any  more,  Mamie, 

He  won't  be  coming  any  more: 
He  came  back  once  and  again  and  again, 

But  he  won't  get  leave  any  more. 

We  looked  from  the  window  and  there  was  his  cab, 

And  we  ran  downstairs  like  a  streak. 
And  he  said  "Hullo,  you  bad  dog,"  and  you  crouched  to  the 
floor, 

Paralysed  to  hear  him  speak. 

And  then  let  fly  at  his  face  and  his  chest 

Till  I  had  to  hold  you  down. 
While  he  took  off^  his  cap  and  his  gloves  and  his  coat. 

And  his  bag  and  his  thonged  Sam  Browne. 

We  went  upstairs  to  the  studio. 

The  three  of  us,  just  as  of  old, 
And  you  lay  down  and  I  sat  and  talked  to  him 

As  round  the  room  he  strolled. 

Here  in  the  room  where,  years  ago 

Before  the  old  life  stopped. 
He  worked  all  day  with  his  slippers  and  his  pipe, 

He  would  pick  up  the  threads  he'd  dropped, 
[93] 


Fondling  all  the  drawings  he  had  left  behind, 

Glad  to  find  them  all  still  the  same, 
And  opening  the  cupboards  to  look  at  his  belongings 

.  .  .  Every  time  he  came. 

But  now  I  know  what  a  dog  doesn't  know, 

Though  you'll  thrust  your  head  on  my  knee, 
And  try  to  draw  me  from  the  absent-mindedness 

That  you  find  so  dull  in  me. 

And  all  your  life  you  will  never  know 

What  I  wouldn't  tell  you  even  if  I  could, 
That  the  last  time  we  waved  him  away 

Willy  went  for  good. 

But  sometimes  as  you  lie  on  the  hearthrug 

Sleeping  in  the  warmth  of  the  stove, 
Even  through  your  muddled  old  canine  brain 

Shapes  from  the  past  may  rove. 

You'll  scarcely  remember,  even  in  a  dream. 

How  we  brought  home  a  silly  little  pup. 
With  a  big  square  head  and  little  crooked  legs 

That  could  scarcely  bear  him  up. 

But  your  tail  will  tap  at  the  memory 

Of  a  man  whose  friend  you  were, 
Who  was  always  kind  though  he  called  you  a  naughty  dog 

When  he  found  you  on  his  chair; 

Who'd  make  you  face  a  reproving  finger 

And  solemnly  lecture  you 
Till  your  head  hung  downwards  and  you  looked  very  sheepish! 

And  you'll  dream  of  your  triumphs  too. 
[94] 


Of  summer  evening  chases  in  the  garden 

When  you  dodged  us  all  about  with  a  bone: 

We  were  three  boys,  and  you  were  the  cleverest, 
But  now  we're  two  alone. 

When  summer  comes  again. 

And  the  long  sunsets  fade, 
We  shall  have  to  go  on  playing  the  feeble  game  for  two 

That  since  the  war  we've  played. 

And  though  you  run  expectant  as  you  always  do 

To  the  uniforms  we  meet. 
You'll  never  find  Willy  among  all  the  soldiers 

In  even  the  longest  street, 

Nor  in  any  crowd;  yet,  strange  and  bitter  thought, 

Even  now  were  the  old  words  said. 
If  I  tried  the  old  trick  and  said  "Where's  Willy?" 

You  would  quiver  and  lift  your  head, 

And  your  brown  eyes  would  look  to  ask  if  I  were  serious, 

And  wait  for  the  word  to  spring. 
Sleep  undisturbed:  I  sha'n't  say  that  again. 

You  innocent  old  thing. 

I  must  sit,  not  speaking,  on  the  sofa, 

While  you  lie  asleep  on  the  floor; 
For  he's  suffered  a  thing  that  dogs  couldn't  dream  of. 

And  he  won't  be  coming  here  any  more. 


[95] 


THE  LAKE 


I  AM  a  lake,  altered  by  every  wind. 

The  mild  South  breathes  upon  me,  and  I  spread 

A  dance  of  merry  ripples  in  the  sun. 

The  West  comes  stormily  and  I  am  troubled, 

My  waves  conflict  and  black  depths  show  between  them. 

Under  the  East  wind  bitter  I  grow  and  chill. 

Slate-coloured,  desolate,  hopeless.     But  when  blows 

A  steady  wind  from  the  North  my  motion  ceases, 

I  am  frozen  smooth  and  hard ;  my  conquered  surface 

Returns  the  skies'  cold  light  without  a  comment. 

I  make  no  sound,  nor  can  I ;  nor  can  I  show 

What  depth  I  have,  if  any  depth,  below. 


[96] 


PARADISE  LOST 

What  hues  the  sunlight  had,  how  rich  the  shadows  were, 

The   blue   and    tangled    shadows    dropped    from   the   crusted 

branches  ' 

Of  the  warped  apple-trees  upon  the  orchard  grass. 

How  heavenly  pure  the  blue  of  two  smooth  eggs  that  lay 
Light  on  the  rounded  mud  that  lined  the  thrush's  nest: 
And  what  a  deep  delight  the  spots  that  speckled  them. 

And  that  small  tinkling  stream  that  ran  from  hedge  to  hedge, 
Shadowed  over  by  the  trees  and  glinting  in  the  sunbeams, 
How  clear  the  water  was,  how  flat  the  beds  of  sand 
With  travelling  bubbles  mirrored,  each  one  a  golden  world 
To  my  enchanted  eyes.     Then  earth  was  new  to  me. 

But  now  I  walk  this  earth  as  it  were  a  lumber  room. 
And  sometimes  live  a  week,  seeing  nothing  but  mere  herbs. 
Mere  stones,  mere  passing  birds:  nor  look  at  anything 
Long  enough  to  feel  its  conscious  calm  assault: 
The  strength  of  it,  the  word,  the  royal  heart  of  it. 

Childhood  will  not  return;  but  have  I  not  the  will 

To  strain  my  turbid  mind  that  soils  all  outer  things. 

And,  open  again  to  all  the  miracles  of  light. 

To  see  the  world  with  the  eyes  of  a  blind  man  gaining  sight? 


[97] 


ACACIA  TREE 

All  the  trees  and  bushes  of  the  garden 
Display  their  bright  new  green. 

But  above  them  all,  still  bare, 
The  great  old  acacia  stands. 
His  solitary  bent  black  branches  stark 
Against  the  garden  and  the  sky. 

It  is  as  though  those  other  thoughtless  shrubs, 
The  winter  over,  hastened  to  rejoice 
And  clothe  themselves  in  spring's  new  finery. 
Heedless  of  all  the  iron  time  behind  them. 

But  he,  older  and  wiser,  stronger  and  sadder  of  heart, 
Remembers  still  tlie  cruel  winter,  and  knows 
That  in  some  months  that  death  will  come  again; 
And,  for  a  season,  lonelily  meditates 
Above  his  lighter  companions'  frivolity. 

Till  some  late  sunny  day  when,  breaking  thought. 

He'll  suddenly  yield  to  the  fickle  persuasive  sun. 

And  over  all  his  rough  and  writhing  boughs 

And  tiniest  twigs 

Will  spread  a  pale  green  mist  of  feathery  leaf. 

More  delicate,  more  touching  than  all  the  verdure 

Of  the  younger,  slenderer,  gracefuller  plants  around. 

[98] 


And  then,  when  the  leaves  have  grown 

Till  the  boughs  can  scarcely  be  seen  through  their  crowded 

plumes, 
There  will  softly  glimmer,  scattered  upon  him,  blooms. 
Ivory-white  in  the  green,  weightlessly  hanging. 


[99] 


AUGUST  MOON 

{To    F.    S.) 

In  the  smooth  grey  heaven  is  poised  the  pale  half  moon 
And  sheds  on  the  wide  grey  river  a  broken  reflection. 
Out  from  the  low  church-tower  the  boats  are  moored 
After  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  await  the  dark. 

And  here,  where  the  side  of  the  road  shelves  into  the  river 

At  the  gap  where  barges  load  and  horses  drink, 

There  are  no  horses.     And  the  river  is  full 

And  the  water  stands  by  the  shore  and  does  not  lap. 

And  a  barge  lies  up  for  the  night  this  side  of  the  island, 

The  bargeman  sits  in  the  bows  and  smokes  his  pipe 

And  his  wife  by  the  cabin  stirs.     Behind  me  voices  pass. 

Calm  sky,  calm  river:  and  a  few  calm  things  reflected. 

And  all  as  yet  keep  their  colours;  the  island  osiers. 

The  ash-white  spots  of  umbelliferous  flowers, 

And  the  yellow  clay  of  its  bank,  the  barge's  brown  sails 

That  are  furled  up  the  mast  and  then  make  a  lean  triangle 

To  the  end  of  the  hoisted  boom,  and  the  high  dark  slips 

Where  they  used  to  build  vessels,  and  now  build  them  no  more. 

All  in  the  river  reflected  in  quiet  colours. 

Beyond  the  river  sweeps  round  in  a  bend,  and  is  vast, 

A  wide  grey  level  under  the  motionless  sky 

And  the  waxing  moon,  clean  cut  in  the  mole-grey  sky. 

[100] 


I 


Silence.     Time  is  suspended;  that  the  light  fails 

One  would  not  know  were  it  not  for  the  moon  in  the  sky, 

And  the  broken  moon  in  the  water,  whose  fractures  tell 

Of  slow  broad  ripples  that  otherwise  do  not  show. 

Maturing  imperceptibly  from  a  pale  to  a  deeper  gold, 

A  golden  half  moon  in  the  sky,  and  broken  gold  in  the  water. 

In  the  water,  tranquilly  severing,  joining,  gold: 
Three  or  four  little  plates  of  gold  on  the  river: 
A  little  motion  of  gold  between  the  dark  images 
Of  two  tall  posts  that  stand  in  the  grey  water. 

There  are  voices  passing,  a  murmur  of  quiet  voices, 
A  woman's  laugh,  and  children  going  home. 
A  whispering  couple,  leaning  over  the  railings, 
And,  somewhere,  a  little  splash  as  a  dog  goes  in. 

I  have  always  known  all  this,  it  has  always  been. 
There  is  no  change  anywhere,  nothing  will  ever  change. 

I  heard  a  story,  a  crazy  and  tiresome  myth. 

Listen !  behind  the  twilight  a  deep  low  sound 
Like  the  constant  shutting  of  very  distant  doors, 

Doors  that  are  letting  people  over  there 

Out  to  some  other  place  beyond  the  end  of  the  sky. 


[101] 


SONNET 

There  was  an  Indian,  who  had  known  no  change, 

Who  strayed  content  along  a  sunlit  beach 
Gathering  shells.     He  heard  a  sudden  strange 

Commingled  noise;  looked  up;  and  gasped  for  speech. 
For  in  the  bay,  where  nothing  was  before, 

Moved  on  the  sea,  by  magic,  huge  canoes, 
With  bellying  cloths  on  poles,  and  not  one  oar, 

And  fluttering  coloured  signs  and  clambering  crews. 

And  he,  in  fear,  this  naked  man  alone. 

His  fallen  hands  forgetting  all  their  shells, 
His  lips  gone  pale,  knelt  low  behind  a  stone. 

And  stared,  and  saw,  and  did  not  understand, 
Columbus's  doom-burdened  caravels 

Slant  to  the  shore,  and  all  their  seamen  land. 


[102] 


SONG 


Eyes  like  flowers  and  falling  hair 

Seldom  seen,  nor  ever  long, 
Then  I  did  not  know  you  were 
Destined  subject  for  a  song: 
Sharing  your  unconsciousness 
Of  your  double  loveliness, 
Unaware  how  fair  you  were. 
Peaceful  eyes  and  shadowy  hair. 

Only,  now  your  beauty  falls 

Sweetly  on  some  other  place. 
Lonely  reverie  recalls 

More  than  anything  your  face; 
Any  idle  hour  may  find 
Stealing  on  my  captured  mind, 
Faintly  merging  from  the  air, 
Eyes  like  flowers  and  falling  hair. 


[103] 


A  GENERATION  (1917) 


[104] 


There  was  a  time  that's  gone 
And  will  not  come  again, 
We  knew  it  was  a  pleasant  time, 
How  good  we  never  dreamed. 

When,  for  a  whimsy's  sake. 
We'd  even  play  with  pain, 
For  everything  awaited  us 
And  life  immortal  seemed. 

It  seemed  unending  then 

To  forward-looking  eyes, 

No  thought  of  what  postponement  meant 

Hung  dark  across  our  mirth; 

We  had  years  and  strength  enough 
For  any  enterprise. 
Our  numerous  companionship 
Were  heirs  to  all  the  earth. 

But  now  all  memory 

Is  one  ironic  truth. 

We  look  like  strangers  at  the  boys 

We  were  so  long  ago ; 

For  half  of  us  are  dead. 

And  half  have  lost  their  youth. 

And  our  hearts  are  scarred  by  many  griefs. 

That  only  age  should  know. 


UNDER 

In  this  house,  she  said,  in  this  high  second  storey, 
In  this  room  where  we  sit,  above  the  midnight  street, 
There  runs  a  rivulet,  narrow  but  very  rapid, 
Under  the  still  floor  and  your  unconscious  feet. 

The  lamp  on  the  table  made  a  cone  of  light 
That  spread  to  the  base  of  the  walls:  above  was  in  gloom. 
I  heard  her  words  with  surprise;  had  I  worked  here  so  long, 
And  never  divined  that  secret  of  the  room? 

"But  how,"  I  asked,  "does  the  water  climb  so  high?" 
"I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  "but  the  thing  is  there; 
Pull  up  the  boards  while  I  go  and  fetch  you  a  rod." 
She  passed,  and  I  heard  her  creaking  descend  the  stair. 

And  I  rose  and  rolled  the  Turkey  carpet  back 

From  the  two  broad  boards  by  the  north  wall  she  had  named. 

And,  hearing  already  the  crumple  of  water,  I  knelt 

And  lifted  the  first  of  them  up;  and  the  water  gleamed. 

Bordered  with  little  frosted  heaps  of  ice, 

And,  as  she  came  back  with  a  rod  and  line  that  swung, 

I  moved  the  other  board;  in  the  yellow  light 

The  water  trickled  frostily,  slackly  along. 

I  took  the  tackle,  a  stiff  black  rubber  worm. 

That  struck  out  its  pointed  tail  from  a  cumbrous  hook, 

[105] 


"But  there  can't  be  fishing  in  water  like  this,"  I  said. 
And  she,  with  weariness,  "There  is  no  ice  there.     Look." 

And  I  stood  there,  gazing  down  at  a  stream  in  spate, 
Holding  the  rod  in  my  undecided  hand  ... 
Till  it  all  in  a  moment  grew  smooth  and  still  and  clear. 
And  along  its  deep  bottom  of  slaty  grey  sand 

Three  scattered  little  trout,  as  black  as  tadpoles. 
Came  waggling  slowly  along  the  glass-dark  lake, 
And  I  swmig  my  arm  to  drop  my  pointing  worm  in. 
And  then  I  stopped  again  with  a  little  shake. 

For  I  heard  the  thin  gnat-like  voices  of  the  trout 
— My  body  felt  woolly  and  sick  and  astray  and  cold — 
Crying  with  mockery  in  them:     "You  are  not  allowed 
To  take  us,  you  know,  under  ten  years  old." 

And  the  room  swam,  the  calm  woman  and  the  yellow  lamp. 

The  table,  and  the  dim-glistering  walls,  and  the  floor, 

And  the  stream  sank  away,  and  all  whirled  dizzily. 

And  I  moaned,  and  the  pain  at  my  heart  grew  more  and  more. 

And  I  fainted  away,  utterly  miserable. 
Falling  in  a  place  where  there  was  nothing  to  pass. 
Knowing  all  sorrows  and  the  mothers  and  sisters  of  sorrows, 
And  the  pain  of  the  darkness  before  anything  ever  was. 


[106] 


RIVERS 

Rivers  I  have  seen  which  were  beautiful, 

Slow  rivers  winding  in  the  flat  fens, 

With  bands  of  reeds  like  thronged  green  swords 

Guarding  the  mirrored  sky; 
And  streams  down-tumbling  from  the  chalk  hills 
To  valleys  of  meadows  and  watercress-beds, 
And  bridges  whereunder,  dark  weed-coloured  shadows, 

Trout  flit  or  lie. 

I  know  those  rivers  that  peacefully  glide 
Past  old  towers  and  shaven  gardens. 
Where  mottled  walls  rise  from  the  water 

And  mills  all  streaked  with  flour; 
And  rivers  with  wharves  and  rusty  shipping, 
That  flow  with  a  stately  tidal  motion 
Towards  their  destined  estuaries 

Full  of  the  pride  of  power; 

Noble  great  rivers,  Thames  and  Severn, 
Tweed  with  his  gateway  of  many  grey  arches, 
Clyde,  dying  at  sunset  westward 

In  a  sea  as  red  as  blood; 
Rhine  and  his  hills  in  close  procession. 
Placid  Elbe,  Seine  slaty  and  swirling, 
And  Isar,  son  of  the  Alpine  snows, 

A  furious  turquoise  flood. 
[107] 


All  these  I  have  known,  and  with  slow  eyes 

I  have  walked  on  their  shores  and  watched  them, 

And  softened  to  their  beauty  and  loved  them 

Wherever  my  feet  have  been; 
And  a  hundred  others  also 
Whose  names  long  since  grew  into  me, 
That,  dreaming  in  light  or  darkness, 

I  have  seen,  though  I  have  not  seen. 

Those  rivers  of  thought:  cold  Ebro, 

And  blue  racing  Guadiana, 

Passing  white  houses,  high-balconied, 

That  ache  in  a  sun-baked  land, 
Congo,  and  Nile  and  Colorado, 
Niger,  Indus,  Zambesi 
And  the  Yellow  River,  and  the  Oxus 

And  the  river  that  dies  in  sand. 

What  splendours  are  theirs,  what  continents, 
What  tribes  of  men,  what  basking  plains. 
Forests  and  lion-hided  deserts. 

Marshes,  ravines  and  falls: 
All  hues  and  shapes  and  tempers 
Wandering  they  take  as  they  wander 
From  those  far  springs  that  endlessly 

The  far  sea  calls. 

0  in  reverie  I  know  the  Volga 
That  turns  his  back  upon  Europe, 
And  the  two  great  cities  on  his  banks, 

Novgorod  and  Astrakhan; 
Where  the  v>^orld  is  a  few  soft  colours. 
And  under  the  dove-like  evening 
The  boatmen  chant  ancient  songs. 

The  tenderest  known  to  man. 
[108] 


And  the  holy  river  Ganges, 

His  fretted  cities  veiled  in  moonlight, 

Arches  and  buttresses  silver-shadowy 

In  the  high  moon. 
And  palms  grouped  in  the  moonlight 
And  fanes  girdled  with  cypresses. 
Their  domes  of  marble  softly  shining 

To  the  high  silver  moon. 

And  that  aged  Brahmapootra 
Who  beyond  the  white  Himalayas 
Passes  many  a  lamassery 

On  rocks  forlorn  and  frore, 
A  block  of  gaunt  grey  stone  walls 
With  rows  of  little  barred  windows, 
Where  shrivelled  young  monks  in  yellow  silk 

Are  hidden  for  evermore.  .  .  . 

But  0  that  great  river,  the  Amazon, 

I  have  sailed  up  its  gulf  with  eyelids  closed. 

And  the  yellow  waters  tumbled  round. 

And  all  was  rimmed  with  sky. 
Till  the  banks  drew  in,  and  the  trees'  heads, 
And  the  lines  of  green  grew  higher 
And  I  breathed  deep,  and  there  above  me 

The  forest  wall  stood  high. 

Those  forest  walls  of  the  Amazon 

Are  level  under  the  blazing  blue 

And  yield  no  sound  save  the  whistles  and  shrieks 

Of  the  swarming  bright  macaws; 
And  under  their  lowest  drooping  boughs 
Mud-banks  torpidly  bubble. 
And  the  water  drifts,  and  logs  in  the  water 

Drift  and  twist  and  pause. 
[109] 


And  everywhere,  tacitly  joining, 
Float  noiseless  tributaries, 
Tall  avenues  paved  with  water: 

And  as  I  silent  fly 
The  vegetation  like  a  painted  scene, 
Spars  and  spikes  and  monstrous  fans 
And  ferns  from  hairy  sheaths  up-springing, 

Evenly  passes  by. 

And  stealthier  stagnant  channels 
Under  low  niches  of  drooping  leaves 
Coil  into  deep  recesses: 

And  there  have  I  entered,  there 
To  heavy,  hot,  dense,  dim  places 
Where  creepers  climb  and  sweat  and  climb, 
And  the  drip  and  splash  of  oozing  water 

Loads  the  stifling  air. 

Rotting  scrofulous  steaming  trunks, 
Great  horned  emerald  beetles  crawling. 
Ants  and  huge  slow  butterflies 

That  had  strayed  and  lost  the  sun; 
Ah,  sick  I  have  swooned  as  the  air  thickened 
To  a  pallid  brown  ecliptic  glow. 
And  on  the  forest,  fallen  with  languor, 

Thunder  has  begim. 

Thunder  in  the  dun  desk,  thunder 

Rolling  and  battering  and  cracking. 

The  caverns  shudder  with  a  terrible  glare 

Again  and  again  and  again. 
Till  the  land  bows  in  the  darkness, 
Utterly  lost  and  defenceless, 
Smitten  and  blinded  and  overwhelmed 

By  the  crashing  rods  of  rain. 
[110] 


And  then  in  the  forests  of  the  Amazon, 
When  the  rain  has  ended,  and  silence  come, 
What  dark  luxuriance  unfolds 

From  behind  the  night's  drawn  bars: 
The  wreathing  odours  of  a  thousand  trees 
And  the  flowers'  faint  gleaming  presences. 
And  over  the  clearings  and  the  still  waters 

Soft  indigo  and  hanging  stars. 

0  many  and  many  are  rivers, 
And  beautiful  are  all  rivers, 
And  lovely  is  water  everywhere 

That  leaps  or  glides  or  stays; 
Yet  by  starlight,  moonlight,  or  sunlight. 
Long,  long  though  they  look,  these  wandering  eyes, 
Even  on  the  fairest  waters  of  dream, 

Never  untroubled  gaze. 

For  whatever  stream  I  stand  by, 
And  whatever  river  I  dream  of, 
There  is  something  still  in  the  back  of  my  mind 

From  very  far  away; 
There  is  something  I  saw  and  see  not, 
A  country  full  of  rivers 
That  stirs  in  my  heart  and  speaks  to  me 

More  sure,  more  dear  than  they. 

And  always  I  ask  and  wonder 

(Though  often  I  do  not  know  it)  : 

Why  does  this  water  not  smell  like  water? 

Where  is  the  moss  that  grew 
Wet  and  dry  on  the  slabs  of  granite 
And  the  round  stones  in  clear  brown  water? 
— And  a  pale  film  rises  before  them 
Of  the  rivers  that  first  I  knew. 
[Ill] 


Though  famous  are  the  rivers  of  the  great  world, 
Though  my  heart  from  those  alien  waters  drinks 
Delight  however  pure  from  their  loveliness, 

And  awe  however  deep, 
Would  I  wish  for  a  moment  the  miracle 
That  those  waters  should  come  to  Chagford, 
Or  gather  and  swell  in  Tavy  Cleave 

Where  the  stones  cling  to  the  steep? 

No,  even  were  they  Ganges  and  Amazon 
In  all  their  great  might  and  majesty. 
League  upon  league  of  wonders, 

I  would  lose  them  all,  and  more, 
For  a  light  chiming  of  small  bells, 
A  twisting  flash  in  the  granite. 
The  tiny  thread  of  a  pixie  waterfall 

That  lives  by  Vixen  Tor. 

Those  rivers  in  that  lost  country. 

They  were  brown  as  a  clear  brown  bead  is. 

Or  red  with  the  earth  that  rain  washed  down, 

Or  white  with  china-clay; 
And  some  tossed  foaming  over  boulders. 
And  some  curved  mild  and  tranquil 
In  wooded  vales  securely  set 

Under  the  fond  warm  day. 

Okement  and  Erme  and  Avon, 

Exe  and  his  ruffled  shallows, 

I  could  cry  as  I  think  of  those  rivers 

That  knew  my  morning  dreams; 
The  weir  by  Tavistock  at  evening 
When  the  circling  woods  were  purple, 
And  the  Lowman  in  spring  with  the  lent-lilies. 

And  the  little  moorhand  streams. 
[112] 


For  many  a  hillside  streamlet 
There  falls  with  a  broken  tinkle, 
Falling  and  dying,  falling  and  dying, 

In  little  cascades  and  pools. 
Where  the  world  is  furze  and  heather 
And  flashing  plovers  and  fixed  larks, 
And  an  empty  sky,  whitish  blue, 

That  small  world  rules. 

There,  there,  where  the  high  waste  bog-lands 

And  the  drooping  slopes  and  the  spreading  valleys, 

The  orchards  and  the  cattle-sprinkled  pastures 

Those  travelling  musics  fill, 
There  is  my  lost  Abana, 
And  there  is  my  nameless  Pharphar 
That  mixed  with  my  heart  when  I  was  a  boy, 

And  time  stood  still. 

And  I  say  I  will  go  there  and  die  there: 

But  I  do  not  go  there,  and  sometimes 

I  think  that  the  train  could  not  carry  me  there. 

And  it's  possible,  maybe, 
That  it's  farther  than  Asia  or  Africa, 
Or  any  voyager's  harbour, 
Farther,  farther,  beyond  recall.  .  .  . 

O  even  in  memory! 


[113] 


I  SHALL  MAKE  BEAUTY 

I  SHALL  make  beauty  out  of  many  things: 

Lights,  colours,  motions,  sky  and  earth  and  sea, 
The  soft  unbosoming  of  all  the  springs 

Which  that  inscrutable  hand  allows  to  me, 
Odours  of  flowers,  sounds  of  smitten  strings. 

The  voice  of  many  a  wind  in  many  a  tree, 
Fields,  rivers,  moors,  swift  feet  and  floating  wings. 

Rocks,  caves,  and  hills  that  stand  and  clouds  that  flee. 

Men  also  and  women,  beautiful  and  dear. 

Shall  come  and  pass  and  leave  a  fragrant  breath; 

And  my  own  heart,  laughter  and  pain  and  fear, 
The  majesties  of  evil  and  of  death; 

But  never,  never  shall  any  verses  trace 

The  loveliness  of  your  most  lovely  face. 


[114] 


ENVOI 


Beloved,  when  my  heart's  awake  to  God 
And  all  the  world  becomes  His  testimony, 
In  you  I  most  do  see,  in  your  brave  spirit, 
Erect  and  certain,  flashing  deeds  of  light, 
A  pure  jet  from  the  fountain  of  all  being, 
A  scripture  clearer  than  all  else  to  read. 

And  when  belief  was  dead  and  God  a  myth, 

And  the  world  seemed  a  wandering  mote  of  evil, 

Endurable  only  by  its  impermanence. 

And  all  the  planets  perishable  urns 

Of  perished  ashes,  to  you  alone  I  clung 

Amid  the  unspeakable  loneliness  of  the  universe. 


[115] 


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